So many of my literary and pop culture references are useless in this context. I find it a challenge, since we largely communicate through deconstruction and collage in the 21st Century.
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Certainly I am not alone in finding that international air travel is a bit…trying. It wears you down. Your head fills with goo.
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Booze. Boys. More booze. More boys. Sounds like my twenties. Okay, and the first half of my thirties. Also the late teen years. You get the point.
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Very well. I will give him his space. I will let him make his mistakes. No fucking dragons, though!
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My previous attempts at novels have all had an A and a Z with nothing in between. Not so much as an LMNOP. I meandered. I despaired. I turned to unenthusiastic and too-frequent masturbation.
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This blog is the nothingness into which I will scream and spit and swear as I write my first novel. I am 44 years old. I have written many poems. I think two of them were good. When I say good, I mean not toilet paper, strictly speaking. I have taken several whacks at the same book. Each time I’ve gotten a third of the way in and found myself lost. This blog is not about that book. Fuck that book. Fuck it hard and don’t buy it dinner but maybe come back to it one day because of masochism.
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