Psychobabble From a Diagnosed Nutter

I should be typing up my new novel so I can self-publish the thing, something I thought I'd never do. I've typed up 20K of it, and it's a real mean bastard of a novel, probably the most disgusting yet scientific thing I've ever written, definitely one of the craziest. This one more than the last one--which I'm still fucking waiting to hear something about--reflects the oddities that flow inside this head of mine, this horrible place I'll never escape and that, when manifested, tends to send people fleeing for cover. It's funny when I think about it...I came close to being a fat, narcissistic internet troll, a fake fuck who only wants to be loved, WAH!

Fuck off with your fragile egos, you cunts. Get out of the basement and run some of those fritos and energy drinks off. Use that sugar. And here you wonder why your writing is shit and you have to tell lies to get people's attention.

Just to clarify, I stopped this from happening by picking up a guitar and learning to sing and play and I got really fucking angry and did a lot of pushups and shadow boxing. Not the end of story, but the end of it for here. The rest will very likely surface in Rockford Bastard. But I digress. I'm going to self-publish because I'm sick of waiting. Fuck waiting. I have another option.

Bruni. I'm always mentioning him. Well, he's the most successful cunt I know personally. If you ask him that's not saying much but if you ask me he's well on his way to the mid-list and I'm still collecting my 200 rejection letters in order to qualify. I mention him here because I once asked him, "If I ever become successful why do you think it will be?"

"You're brutally honest and you don't care if anyone likes it or not. That and you exercise proper grammar which goes a long way these days."

Hilarious. I don't know what I'd do without that fuckball. He never taught me how to write but he taught me technique. We like to practice by killing each other in stories. He tosses those, but some of mine have gone to different rags in another form so they aren't inside jokes so much as stories. God Bless You, John Bruni.

I don't know if I'll crack and die before I see publication in any grand form or if a fight will take me because I get into a lot of those--damn rage disorder--but if it happens all my story rights revert to him. I don't even know why I'm saying this. I'm feeling my own mortality more and more as the days pass as though either the worm is going to cause the snap a lot of the people closest to me are waiting for and my ancient viking blood is going to boil over, or maybe I'll get smashed by a toilet seat falling out of an airplane. I'd probably be better off with the latter.

There are times I wish the world looked to me the way it looks to normal folks. Luckily those are rare.

Happy Unbirthday, folks.