Reading some Raymond Chandler in the café. A story called Spanish Blood. It’s a masterwork and I hate it. I like reading terrible writing instead. Gives me hope and a shot of high-octane arrogance. When I read something I like it makes me angry. Makes it hard for me to maintain the delusion that I am The King. Good writing offends me with its existence. I can only handle for a few paragraphs before I want to put it down and try my own thing. Raymond Goddamn Chandler, you smug fuck. Sitting around with that ornery pipe and Dwight Schrute hair. I’m glad you’re dead. I only read good writing so I can hijack what works. Only pursue new influences so that I can get better at writing. Which is actually a waste of time, now that I think about it. I don’t need to get better at writing. None of us do. Because no one moves units like James Patterson. Motherfucker’s Viagra pills probably have gold flakes baked in.