don’t read this



WRITE, you bastard. Keep it flowing. Get it out of your fingers. Ten thousand hours is what the scorekeepers say you must invest before you can claim mastery. See, you’ve already got form, but you lack discipline. You can’t sit down for six hours and write a few dozen pages. What if you could? What if you could literally just sit down and crank out page after page after page. Finish novels in scant months, toss off articles and novellas every few days. You’d make money. You’d be popular. You’d be famous. They’d love you. 

Who are you kidding. You’ll never be loved. You’ll die poor. The world will forget your name before you’ve even checked out. You’re not welcome here. This is a foreign land. Get out. You are an alien in this place. Get out. This place shrivels where you step upon it, this place cringes and withdraws at your breath. Get out. Your existence is an affront to this place. You do not belong. This is not your home. You have no home. You–

Man, negative. Why? Why not? I’m okay with that. I need to lash out. God knows. You’ve been eating and eating and eating away at yourself because you don’t want to feel like you’re burdening anyone else. Well, then there’s her.

She is everything perfect. She is everything you need. She is the salve to your every wound, the is the balm you could not have dreamed existed. She is sweetness and light. She is the breath of an autumn morning, she is the golden sunbeam that kisses you through golden leaves. She is everything you ever wanted. She is a healing force. She is distilled goodness. She is the ideal. She is the goddess. She is the one. She is the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. She’s just a human being and she’s dirty and she’s imperfect and she’s angry sometimes and lazy sometimes and her body makes smells and she has pores and sometimes she picks her nose and if she didn’t pluck and shave and tweeze then there would be hairs there that would make you throw up but the thing is that none of that MATTERS. She poops, and I understand that, okay? Fuck you. Fuck you if you think I’m worshipping her without cause. Because she listened to me when I was in pain. She reached out to me, reached in to me, touched my face when i felt untouchable, she lent her ear when all I could speak was poison, she laughed when I felt like a  broken clown, her laughter like soap bubbles bursting against glass chimes, but so much sweeter. She is sweetness and light. She is Athena, the virgin Mary, mother and wife and companion and foundation. She is the Muse. She is the part of the song when you close your eyes and hum along, and you feel the notes course through your veins like buttered lightning with pockets full of calm.

I’m a fucking nutcase. I’m insane. I’m broken and diseased and tortured and lazy and a entropic ball of emotions and pathetic excuses, I am the audience member who believes in his heart that if I just had the chance I could do it, I could make something of myself, I could be famous and everyone would love me and I would be redeemed———–a-wsi9eaw AND I AM WRONG IN BELIEVING THIS. There is nothing special about me. 

Not until I write for ten thousand hours. But in order to write for ten thousand hours, I’d have to write for one hour. I don’t know if I can sit down and write for an hour. To get ten thousand hours in ten years I’d need to write three hours a day. In order to get it in five, it’d have to be six hours a day. Six hours of writing a day. I can’t do it. I’ll give up. I’ll walk away. I’ll fail, once again, utterly and completely.

My method is shit. I haven’t got one. I just type and the words hit the paper and sometimes they’re clever but more often than not it’s just more utterly masturbatory bullshit. Look at me, I’m a real live writer. No, if you were a real writer you’d see about getting yourself published. Or you’d put yourself in a situation where you had to constantly, constantly write, do nothing BUT write, just sit for hours and hours and do nothing but let the words spill out, stupid, inane, fucking meaningless words. And why? Who cares what I have to say? Who cares what I say about myself and my life or about the world or any number of things I’m not qualified to tihnk about?

Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck everything, fuck life, fuck writing, fuck the rules, fuck ten thousand hours. I’m never going to be happy. I am not going to wake up on any morning of any day of my pathetic life and say,

“I am in shape, the sun is bright, I feel nothing but bliss in this moment, I anticipate nothing but bliss for my foreseeable future, the only problems I will encounter today will be the kind I enjoy solving, and solving them will make me a better and even happier person.”

That won’t happen. That can’t happen. I’m disappointed, disillusioned, depressed, fed up, disgruntled, pissed off, confused, whiny, pathetic, and small. Strike the last- I’m over two hundred pounds and not an inch over 5’9″. 

So I turn on the music and I try to find that moment, that moment that courses over and through me as if I had some purpose, as if I was loved, as if I could love, as if there were anything meaningful or redeeming about me and this moment, this perfect lens into the future, a perfect correlation of anything, everything I know, have known, could know

Listen to the piano’s seemingly random steps, the strings, as they describe the outlines of what you already knew–

I’ve written a thousand words just now, just a few moments sitting here, I don’t know why, I don’t know how, I don’t know what about, you’ll not enjoy reading it, I won’t read it again, I won’t bother reading it again, what’s the point, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKUSLKIFUJASLFIJASLFKJASLk

Heh. the tingling in my fingers as I stopped typing for a moment. It was almost what I’ve been looking for. Almost.

Well. I wonder what a professional reading this would say. Professional psychologist: Clearly you have pent-up feelings of rage, helplessness, despair, loneliness, and intrafamilial aggression.

Professional psychiatrist: you appear to have some neurological imbalances. I’m going to give you a prescription to take your mind off things and let you relax. Here, this will brighten things a bit and let you socialize a bit more easily.

Professional writer: Dude, this is kind of bullshit, man. Like, quit talking about how much you suck and just go WRITE something. And start talking to publishers now, because you’ll be seeing a loooot of rejection letters. You’ll need to get started now if you want to find one who’ll accept you.

Professional basketball player: Wait, you wanted me to read ALL of this? What’s this for again? I dunno man. Listen, talk to my man J.R., he’ll set you up with some donations or whatever, but I got to bounce, aight? Yeah, you keep doin- wait, this wasn’t for a charity? I’m outta here, man…

Professional dermatologist: Stop calling my office, please. I’m very busy and I don’t have time to comment on your little web page.

Professional musician: (Plays guitar for half an hour)

Professional wrestler: My god. This– this is heartbreaking. I’m just numbed by the sheer, the sheer heartbreak this young man is enduring. He’s in the midst of the most normal part of his life, and he feels unloved, unwanted, and misunderstood… the girl he loves lives HOW far away from him? Quite frankly, my heart goes out to this young man. I wish there were something I could do to assuage the suffering he’s going through right now, but you know, I believe he has a certain panache even in this, his hour of despair. He’s going to make it. There’s just something likeable about him, even under all his self-loathing. I really hope he makes it through this. If he pulls through, he could really be somebody someday.





You fucking SHITTY writer that’s not funny at ALL what the hell is wrong with you, you confuse gimmick for poetry and specks of noise for meaning– FUCK YOU and fuck this piece, you’re just NOTHING, you are meaningless, no one loves you and WITH GOOD REASON, no one is reading this. Nobody cares. 

God damn it. I don’t know why I’m posting this. Fuck me. Fuck you. Good night.

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