I am in a mood. If someone around me is scowling then I want them to die. If someone around me is laughing then I want them to die. Couples run for the closing train doors and I hope they get sliced in half. Spent the day doing final final final edits on my book. The guy who did the last draft in January is a fucktard. He made mistakes. Cocky airhead. His style is flabby. Had to get out the knife and slash. Kill the rookie. Fuck this guy. He should have been better by then. Now I gotta come through and mop up.
Fuck this guy. He was 22 and playing Killzone on PS2 after work. Going to bed wondering why he’s anxious. I want to go to back in time. Cinch the PS2 cord around his neck and break his nose. Handcuff him to the desk and open MS Word. Get going. Now I’m 27 and the comments I get from other writers who I don’t know are “nice one.” “Cool.”
Good. Level unlocked. But now I want superlatives. I’m an animal and I can’t stop thinking about it. This is all I can do. It’s unacceptable to not be undeniable by now. If you’re that good at something then your other defects are forgivable. If you’re not good at something then you’re just a weird guy. So, get to work. I wish this were something you could punch or a mountain you could run up. Brute force and a few blinks of agony and then you’re done. But no. You need to be smart. Hone your instincts. You gotta read. You need a few thousand hours of spare time and then a few thousand more.
My buddy got drunk and told me they have a separate group chat that I’m not in so they can coordinate meetups because they know I’ll bail. Well it’s true, I will. I would hang out with you guys but I can’t remember what human beings are supposed to talk about.