I need a cool fucking job. Money in exchange for fun. I’d give up on the fantasy if I didn’t keep meeting people who are paid to dick around. Like this DJ who plays yachts in Hong Kong. Isn’t it always just like that: You look back and the path is always so clear. You didn’t need to toil in that job, trapping money for assholes. All you had to do was buy some large headphones.
Every day my rage multiplies as I re-remember that writing never worked out. I didn’t spend time developing any other skills; that was my purpose. I grew up next to a fucking library — impossible for the destiny to be any more obvious. So I went full speed ahead and then went off a cliff. The real problem is when you believe that everyone has a path or a purpose. What actually happens is that most of us just flail in the gaps for 80 years.
In my dreams I see a sports commercial starring me. I fall and die in slow-motion. My voice is the narration: “They said it couldn’t be done… that I couldn’t beat the odds. They were right.”
Now I need a new thing, a new source of drive. Does such a thing even exist for me. Can’t focus on the search. People email me: your fiction is shit, your blog is better. Yes, my blog is God. My blog is as perfect and divine as He is. Too bad not everyone likes God. Too bad that to many people, God does not even exist. I’m fucked, brother.