N Its Tuesday N that
The Only Thing That Relieves The Pain Of A Writer Is Hearing About The Pain Of Another Writer
N I’m already slagging off Medium and it’s only 8.15.
I’m telling my cousin Allan about how I left the Medium Partner Program for real this time and how all my stories are now available to everybody.
He says he’ll send a telegram to Downing St.
That’s his way of saying nobody gives a fuck and he’s probably right. I mean I only started writing here again cos Mike did. I’m not fucking Hemingballs.
But Allan is a writer himself. He’s made a few bucks from mainstream fiction though nothing to write to your grandma about. He says to me that my hatred for Medium is a manifestation of my own laziness so I don’t have to write every day. He says the algorithm will treat me kinder if I write every day rather than once a month when I’ve run out of self loathing juice.
Maybe that bastard is right.
It’s not like I’m looking for literary head. That’s why I stopped putting my stories behind the paywall. Cos I realised I don’t give a fuck about the spondoolix. The spondoolism is just a measure of success as a writer. It’s not like yer can get a high level bint nor pay the rent with the proceeds. It’s more like an egg and lettuce sandwich or a Cadbury spunk egg, that kind of thing.
And we established that medium writers ejaculate when they get paid because it’s the simple thrill of being paid to write and because they don’t realise it’s the 10% of their own five bucks that’s getting distributed back to them.
It’s not getting paid to write when you are paying to write.
Regardless, it can’t hurt to do another one of those write everyday for thirty days cock up the arse challenges.
Well it can make your fucking life implode somehow. That’s what happened last time and I ended up drunk on one of those rodeo horses with no pants on and the chafing was too much. Then again it’s where I met my first wife, Rachel Higgins. She was the nurse that put Vaseline on my red sack. It was World War 2 aswell so she had one of those hot nurse outfits on, not those scrubs n crocs jobs that make ya balls shrink these days.
But I Tigress.
It’s Tuesday and it’s now 8.45 and I’ve been off the gear for a while meaning I’m living a tremendously conservative life as an accounting student. Every day I speak with other geeks about financial things and solving syphillitic equations. N I’m perfectly fine about pretending to enjoy it as it keeps me away from the written word. Yet here I am, dipping my balls in the white chocolate fountain once more. Again. Mid paragraph shooting language into my eyeballs diving head first into the void and considering getting back on the gear full time for a month.
It’s what we do. We are writing junkies, not realising there are 0.005% who make some kind of living from it and no, its not because they are interesting. Its because the bastards who are still reading in this day and age are as boring as they are.
But I feel better at 2.15pm cos I get an email back from my yankee mate, Ginger. And she’s goin on about how she cant write cos she’s too busy living the American dream which involves something like having to feed and clean after a possee of fellow Americans who feel entitled to such service because they came out of her vagina or came into her vagina.
And I realise, its like fucking methadone for writers: Hearing about the suffering of other writers, I mean.
It’s the only damn thing that appeases us.
Cos if ya think all the other writers have stunning words flowing out of them like brown liquid from the arsehole of my Uncle Phil after he insisted the chicken had only been in the fridge for four days rather than six, then you’re always gonna suffer.
Cos ya think its a lark, this writing crap. But its honestly more like the holocaust though maybe not quite as bad.
And pointing and laughing at other writers is like the Russians coming in and liberating Germany from the hands of Hitler.
Now listen, Medium is dead to me. That corporate prick Stubbelyballs and his team of bloodsucking fucks can go suck off a nighclub full of retarded goats as far as I’m concerned. So (aside from this pile of turd you are currently reading, and which if anyone asks you never saw,) I’m only writing on Substack now . . Which concerns me since building an audience on Substack is like standing in a field of empty potatoes and pissing into the great northern wind without a raincoat. So look, I’m not sure what I’m asking you to do, but for the love of god, do something. Tell yer non-existent friends. Drop a shit on the turkey at the annual family Easter lunch. Tell your granny as she listens to you, mid warm pish in her scratchy chair at the Edgecliff retirement home for old sluts. Whatever. Don’t just stand there. Do something, you cock whisperer.
