I Went To Church For Confession

Once more for old time’s sake

Bless me Father for I have sinned.

Last night I drank three peach cooners and a quart of tequila. I went out for a walk in the local area to continue my junkie-spotting project. And while I was out, I decided to start a fictional Substack for a character who was a writing teacher — one of those crabs who tells people how to write for money. I decided to start a blog and charge people for knowledge and monthly posts about how to make money writing online about how to make money writing online.

Yes, please go on, Son.

That’s it, father.

Isn’t there more?

The old man sounded disappointed, which isn’t surprising. Let’s say he’s a semi-good priest so he doesn’t actually fuck the altar boys but just subtly wanks over the confession stories and some of the C.I.L.F.S* in his congregation. That being the case, he’d have to develop at least a slightly warm sales process to get me to put forth more oral material for his holy wank bank.

I could tell him about the Hello Kevin moment I had when I drunk too much coffee and thought the boiler in the basement was one of those SAS: Who Dares Wins TV guys so I grabbed one of my rifles and ran out of the back door and accidentally shot…