[The following content is not suitable for persons sensitive to the likes of 'fuck' and 'shit' and so forth.]
Yes, I'm having a blahblahfuckingblah
He said, "Yes. Even Obama needs to veg in front of the TV sometimes."
Biographies should give us less "and then x wrote the third masterpiece" and more "before x wrote the third masterpiece, she wasted two months with a blender full of rum and bad pineapples."
I've done nothing but swim in my laptop for six hours.
SIX fucking hours and nothing to show for it except a thousand run-on thoughts twisting into one crazy, imagined mind-hell. Help. Someone has hammered open a fire hydrant in my brain. (!)
The next poem a journal will publish is one about my hell months with my father in Korea. Now that he regularly stalks my twitter and doesn't hesitate to scrawl words like "whore" all over my Interwebs, how the fuck — repeat: how the fuck — am I supposed to shrug well enough to publicize myself and my good-ish poem? I fear I may chicken out and not announce this one to my, um, two fans via Interwebs. (( COWARD! )) Roar.
YOU EFFING STALKER, YOU RUINED MY ENTIRE PURPOSE FOR A PSEUDONYM. Before I even had it for a year! Before I even published one book! Why couldn't my parents be computer illiterate as all well-behaved parents should be?
Oh and I couldn't give less of a twizzler about this how-to-be-a-happy-billionaire piece of shit non-fiction book I'm ghostwriting.
News flash, dear men of the twenty-first century. Your fancy "men's book" brought to you by your schmancy life coach was written by me: a distraught 26-year-old female poet in the wild throes of menstruation.
I wonder if vague confessions to this ranting degree violate my writer's contract.
I need a nap. And a warm shot of whiskey.
Speaking of whiskey, I'm thisclose to writing a Dear John letter to my boss to crawl back behind the bar and serve ugly cocktails until my words have finally infected the world well enough for me to buy eggs, toilet paper and a hot loft in Soho with my royalties. In some ways, wrecking myself as a barslut seems easier than trucking by as a starving artist.
But what kind of a biography ends with "and then she took the easy way out and died in a pool of vodka"?
God damn you, Lessons Learned.
Why must you ring so loudly in my beaten head? This church thing is really starting to brainwash me
I don't like that it's right.
I don't like that I'm going to take a short nap now, indulge in a quick nightmare, then get up, scrub off my thoughts with a shower, write a fantastic little chapter for that life coach and then spend 11 more healthy hours working. With no whiskey. And lots of dirty soy chai.
Or maybe I do like it.
The struggle is part of the glory. Or some shit.
"...fuckity, shit, shit, fuck and willy. Willy, shit and fuck and... tits." — The King's Speech.
