This post is a new promise to you, my loyal reader (I don’t think anyone reads this, actually) that from now on i ill post twice weekly, Monday and Friday. You’re welcome.
OK, let’s be honest here. I suck. I suck suck suck suck suck. I canceled my last radio show because my partner couldn’t get there on time and I just couldn’t handle it on my own. I haven’t been writing. My best friend has been in and out of the hospital. I tried to write two days ago for my book and erased fucking EVERYTHING I did and now have to start over…
OH, man I just got a call from my friends Erick and Eva. They have kidnapped a dog from Mexico and are now broken down in LA in a camper truck which has a broken clutch and a frame that is falling apart. I love them but they are crazy nutso.
Anyway, I have to start over which is what I have been doing this morning, trying to reconstruct the work I did Wednesday.
I want to do my show again but I have no money, none, it’s sad as hell. My radio show is pretty laughable: the very sight of the equipment makes me want to run in circles and hyperventilate.They keep telling me it’s easy but every time I hear the word “levels” I have to breathe into a bag and pop a xanax.
Anyway, if you read this, encourage me. I need to perform and write and do my radio show but all I really want to do is have lots and lots of sex, which is fun but not furthering my performance career. And don’t write me a comment encouraging me because I have 500…500!…unscreened comments which all read something like this:
“Hypothecate, they remonstrate on to be taught that filing lawsuits is not the diplomacy to about piracy”
I don’t even know what the HELL the point of that is. What are they trying to sell me? Asian teen pubic hairs baked in cupcakes? Pirate-ghost lawyer drugs? Puppy-raping sex toys? Hook-handed nun porn? Does just copying and pasting that infect me with the first trans human-computer virus MECHA-HYPER-AIDS, which will simultaneously cause my toes to blacken, my bank account to develop pustules, and my hair to migrate to the scalp of the person next to me in the grocery store, and then I die right after becoming unable to say anything but, “Me Cookie Monster?”
OH MY GOD TIME is UP and I have to go back to WRITING…
I am going to tell you a weird little secret. I have been–this is actually true–procrastinating on my writing this morning by fucking solving quadratic equations. That’s WEIRD, right? I’m WEIRD. It’s like procrastinating on having sex by doing the dishes. I mean I am supposed to LIKE writing. I do it voluntarily. No one makes me do it. So why do I treat writing as if I hated it? Why am I so ornery and contradictory that the moment I make a commitment to anything I immediately start to feel that that is the thing I hate most in the whole world? That I would rather be doing anything, anything, even high school homework or scrubbing the toilet or drinking Richard Simmons’s butt sweat?
I had probably better never get married again.
OK. If you want to encourage me not to quit, please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. I could use a kindly word or two.