It’s over, Motherfuckers.

Fuck You. I’m Not Trying To Sell My Books Anymore.

I’ve unwittingly become a digital fuck ferret.

Frank T Bird
5 min readSep 11


FTB’s brain on cornflakes

And look, have I tried posting content every day for three centuries like a good little marketing fuck?

Well no. But I’ve tried it for a long time, and very intensely for a few months, and honestly, I feel like I’ve been in an orgy with a gang of randy dementors.

And sure, if you believe the inventor of the sandpaper wank, Gary Vaynerchuck, you need to take more than a few Expecto Patranuses if you want to make it in this digital hell.

But how long do you have to flap your arms around like a dickless turd?

The result of four months of posting every day for me: My average views per post went from 3 to zero.

And yeah, I could keep dangling my scrotum in the NutriBullet.

Cos sure, it probably takes years, and I probably could dedicate my life to sitting up till 3 am every night at my chafing station, sucking radiation into my gonads and going gradually blind, but I’ve got a bigger reason not to:

Because I don’t fucking want to.

You know, Frank, we’re all sick of hearing you bitch about this. You’re killing our marketing vibe, Man.

Yeah, well don’t worry you little fucksquirrel. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.

Ya know ya set out on this romantic writing journey with a cherrywood pipe hangin’ from ya gob, and yer think I won’t have to sell my anus. You give the world respect. You give the internet the benefit of the doubt. You think,

People will read my books, review them, and that will be that.

I’ll be signing books for young maidens and letting them fondle my hard nipples out the back of international bookstores before you can say,

Circle harder, Eddie, circle harder.



Frank T Bird

Indie writer of unique psychological fiction based in Melbourne, Australia. Also on Substack