As a Writer, Your Job is to Push Out a Shit
And push out a shit you will, no matter how drunk you are, you fucker
N, yeah I drank a few strong ales, but as the great writer Frank T Bird once said,
Ya got paid subscribers now, so ya gotta start somewhere, mothfucker.
So here I am, starting somewhere.
It’s located between here and there.
And no, I do not want to be that guy — the guy who is trying to write something desperately that will make you want to fuck him in some hairy bikers truck on the weekend outside some fucking diner in America while yer on tour with the Rolling Stones in 1971 on their Steel Gonads tour.
I’ve been there. I lived that gonad life, shagging underage goats and getting blow jobs from greasy pole dancers after dark. And I’d say I quit because it’s just not for me or because I’m just some old bastard that needs glasses to watch porn these days. But that’s not true. I mean, the porn thing is, but the fact that it’s not for me isn’t true.
I want that life.
