How the Fuck Do I Feel Today?

Its nearly Wednesday so I have to write something.

I’m fucking exhausted. 

It all happened because I woke up for my usual 3 am wank and instead proceeded to write a short story named:

The vagina that licked itself. 

Forty-two hundred words deep, and I passed out again. 

But I’d also stayed up late reading that bastard Lee Child’s Jack Reacharound turd. 

Why the fuck are you reading that, Frank?

That came about because, once again, I’d somehow written myself into a goddamn action scene in my latest book, and I just don’t know how to do it without slowing the pace down to that of a snail’s left bollock. 

So I went to the charity shop to get me some kind of action thrillers like this and The Bourne Redundancy.

And honestly, this guy Child writes in mostly fragments (I’m not even fucking exaggerating) and streams of back-and-forth dialogue longer than Mr T’s dick with no tags, so half the time, ya have no fucking clue who is the one speaking.

And I finally hit the first action scene in the book, and lo and behold, he slows the action down to the pace of a snail’s right bollock.

So I was almost there. I just picked the wrong bollock.

And I open Substack and see that

Jimmy Doom

is complaining about his paid subscriber count being only three hundred and sixty times ten bucks a month rather than three hundred and sixty one. That poor bastard.

N ya can take it one of two ways. 

1.) Either Jimmy is showing his cock to the dinner lady or

2.) He’s showing you what three years of publishing every day will get ya. 

I choose to take it the second way cos anyone who writes that much can show their yellowing anus to the pope without judgement, as far as I’m concerned. 

Then again, we have to wonder why Jimmy is always going on about how broke he is. I mean, that’s 3600 USD a month.

And when you consider the exchange rate, it’s fucking double what I earn, and I even have a part-time job as chief scat master at Back Door Wonka Productions (BDWP). 

On the other hand, I get it. Only Fans accounts and grade A Maple syrup can be expensive.

And somehow, I’ve got

Walter Rhein

in my feed constantly, meaning well but just going on about how anyone who supports Trump likes to fuck children, and it just gets me thinking again about how the purpose of social media is to make you more extreme in your views by pulling you down your own turkey hole further and further till yer out there one day with a black flag and a machete and a flask of coffee yelling at the sky for being blue. 

But I wake up and head out for a walk instead

Cos, my car is making this ticking sound like the clock in Dark Side of the Moon. And I don’t want to make it worse by driving it, nor do I have the spondoolix to fix it.

So I’ve got no way of getting to the gym to do my usual reverse Schwarzeniver hanging sit up crunch dips. 

But I remember that Stephen King used to walk every day until he got smattered by that ice cream truck or whatever. And he said most of his ideas came on that massive walk or something like that.

But then he also said that he used to pin his rejection slips on the wall until they were thicker than his stepmother’s nipples. I remember that Rowling also sent HP to twelve publishers before getting accepted, and I wonder if I, too, should do that. 

And then I remember I’d rather shag a wet horse in Blackpool on Glasgow weekend. 

So I keep walking like King anyway, and I notice someone has left bits of orange peel along my usual route.

And I wonder if it’s some kind of citrus Hansel and Gretel situation where I follow them and end up in a juicy gingerbread house with a horny witch that puts me in a cage and feeds me till my finger is fat enough to slide into her pit of Carkoon so I can bend it upwards in a mysterious c shape into the galaxy of —

Forget it. 

I stop for a coffee, and it’s seven bucks for a regular size, and I wonder if I should start the day with cocaine instead.

It worked for Charlie Sheen, after all, and Downey Junior, and that Wolf of Wank street fucker.

And I think that when I get back, I might have to write something cos it’s nearly fucking Wednesday, and I’ve got paid subscribers now.

N yeah, it’s not quite Jimmy’s cum bucket, but I’m not complaining. 

Then I think I might just sit there for three long hours chanting the Vajra Guru mantra instead and melt into the thirteenth chakra, known as,

‘the one with all the dancing pigeons’

until my face dissolves like that lifesize portrait candle I had made in memory of my Uncle Pawl after he died from cancer of the teef and which looked like Freddie Krueger after burning for nine and a half weeks like Kim Basinget. 

And I realise that makes no fucking sense, so I head to the local dog park instead and even though I don’t have a dog, I take out the dog lead from my pocket and wander around patting all the dogs and pretending to be a dog owner like a psycho, occasionally shouting, 

• Here Fido.

• There’s a good boy, Fido.

• Fido, don’t sniff that lady’s crotch, she probably has thrush. 

Back home, I turn the key. Home sweet something. 

And it’s time to write, Frank or whatever your name is. 

But I don’t have any ideas, said Frank or whatever his name was. 

It doesn’t matter. 

In the space of Dharmakaya, both ideas and non-ideas are empty. And that’s a good place to start. 

So said the guru Shanshek. 

So I strip to my y-fronts, take up the writing posture known as ‘shitting frog’, and take a long sip of my seven-dollar cocaine coffee, and I begin. 

How the fuck do I feel today?

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