Folks, I’m what you call a writer. I write words that stumble upon each other, form sentences, paragraphs, articles, books, lyrics, and the occasional obscenity. Come to think of it, most of these forms of expressing myself in the written form are related to obscenity in some fashion. I guess that’s just who I am, or rather what society demands of me should I want my ego to be appropriately stroked on a semi-daily basis.
That lousy worm, the part of me that writes words like these, that nasty little bugger, he craves further attention. He almost wants to blog again, although he still maintains the healthy loathing for the word, the so called profession, and the lifestyle of the blogger. In fact, that dark little devil is very close to deleting this very site every now and then, although he usually passes out before committing said crime against humanity, not to mention the bank account.
I have no idea why, but that inner nut job has his fans. Maybe they’re all just as nuts, or maybe they are buying into the notion of the happy writer. These sorry souls might subscribe to the idea that being a writer is glamorous, full of adventure, and all about the alcohol, sex, drugs and rock n’ roll.
Who am I to burst that bubble, really? That’s Steven King’s job, after all, and I bet he needs his paycheck.
So this is my journal, my dirty life and times, as a writer and aspiring human being. Expect it to be much like my Tumblr, Twitter, App.net and Facebook, but with less links, lacking in the masturbating kittens department, and absent of drunken ramblings. Wait, scratch that last part, there’ll be plenty of intoxicated words here, some of them true and some written just to spite some other sorry bastard who’s forgotten all about The Real Life.
So cheers to you, dear reader. I’ll toast you right now, from the mosh pit of the naked, the drunk, and the fornicating beasties. On a Monday night, no less, because that’s how I – nay, we! – roll.
We’re a sorry bunch.
We don’t care about your 9-5 lives.
We drink, we fight, we fuck.
We’re writers.
And you know what? Writers write. So there, I’ve got more important stuff to do than this. Go read a book, Warren Ellis’ Gun Machine