How to Swim in the Water Without Getting Wet?

Don't forget who the fuck you are, okay?

I blame Gary Vee, that fucking bastard.

I was just a junior Medium dweeb back then.

I spent my hours fighting against the endless online advice to slip into a hot niche and then market it using Gary’s patented sandpaper wank. 

And the nature of social media is that you dip your little toe in the stinking seawater, and before you know it, yer sitting on this cold grey rock washing the whole lower half of yer legs in the fizzing brine. 

N at first yer just innocently tryin’ to promote the novelinski yer sweated haemoglobin to write. But soon Gary convinces ya to transform yerself into an entrepreneurial marketing goblin. And ya know it's horseshit, but somehow it gets ya anyway.

For me, it meant I started running.

I bought these fucking luminous yellow running shoes that weighed about the same as an ant’s dick. And I went to see this bearded 22-year-old PT at the gym, and he got me to start lifting these fucking weights and doing goblet squats like King Arthur doing a shit. 

And before yer can wank off yer dad, yer wearing these tiger skin Speedos and doing breaststroke across the gentle reef alongside these miniature rainbow cod who swim under you and gently brush your miniature phallus with their wet scales. 

That’s how it gets ya.

And yer happy in a way. But something ain’t quite right. Cos yer not a fucking mermaid. Yer a fucking land animal, ya fucking turkey.

I started hitting fourteen supplements every morning and swigging seagull shit protein shakes and taking Gingko and Vit D and Zinc and L-Clitorine and L- Anusine and spunk thistle and a ton of other shite each day. 

And once yer hair gets wet, ya got nothin’ left to lose, so ya might as well start thrashing around in the sea like an epileptic seal. 

And it feels fucking natural. It feels like it’s you. Cos, that’s what the algorithm does. It changes ya without your fucking attention, or ya consent, like a monkey raping a squirrel in the Amazon jungle—quiet, dark, unseen.

And ya start doing kegel fucking exercises and drinkin' apple cider vinegar n rubbing garlic into yer quietly diminishing scalp and wonderin' how ya gonna kick start ya dick back into life like a fucking chainsaw cos it seems to have lost its fucking life force like Alan fucking Rickman. 

N at some point, if yer blessed, ya might start to feel the cold, and yer salty eye marbles and realise yer can’t just live in the water like fucking Nemo. 

But yo ass hath been in the water so damn long that yo forget what the fuck it’s like to be on dry land. 

Yo forget what parts of this horseshit show you brought with ye and what parts have been rammed into yer big humid gob by Zukerbag n fucking Munsk n the other social media bastards whose algorithms make every single aspect of your personality more extreme by shoving you deeper and harder down your own mental rabbit holes. 

N sometimes yer find yer own way out of the water. Or sometimes friends lend a hand n remind ya who the fuck yer were before yer absorbed too much Himalayan bath salt into yer sponge-like gonads.

N as a writer, the ocean is a place where yer cannit write.

Cos yer too busy flappin’ around gettin’ wet cos yer just want someone to look at ya and go,

Will ya look how great that fucker is.

Yer too busy tryin’ to impress yer audience to be authentic, you dick.

N yer don’t stop for a nanosecond to realize that all of yer friends n things are just a passing phase. So ya think it's all worth dedicating yer time to. But it ain’t. It's like yer shampooing the mane of the horse in the Neverending Story.

N, it's the same reason yer chainsaw dick won’t start. There's no knack to it either, like there is with those fucking Stihl bastards, you cock-whisperer.

N no, it's not the fekin B12 or the Zinc or any of the other highly processed tablets yer stickin’ in yer hot colon cos yer wanna be more like that steroid freak Hemsworth or that boring fucker Huberman or one of the other brain scientist, protein swigging cock knockers.

It’s the fucking stress of living someone else’s life.

Shakespeare never had protein shakes, you cunt.

That weird fuck never had Creatine. N, what are ya? Aren’t ya meant to be a writer?

Yeah, so why yer tryin' to imitate one of those Navy Seal Celebrity psycho fucks or whatever?

Have you ever known a great writer to be a great bodybuilder or even a great athlete? There’s a reason those fucks use ghostwriters.

Social media wants us all to be protein-swiggin dickless muscle goons, doesn’t it? It tells us that’s the only way to be successful, whatever the fuck that means.

But shouldn’t we be imitating the greats of what we wanna be?

Shouldn’t we imitate Bukowski or Vonnegut or Rowling or Salinger or Chekov or Thatcher or whoever the fuck we wanna write like?

I’m talking to myself here. Are you listening, Frank, you fuck?

N no that doesn’t mean drinking like a cunt every night.

But Frank, Hemmingway drunk like a cunt every night.

Well, yeah, he did, but if ya think that boring horsefucker was one of the greats, don’t even bother, Kid.

You aint gonna make it.

N look, that great advice doesn’t even have to come from famous writers.

Sometimes, it comes from a friend. And ya just know it's right. Ya, just know there's wisdom in it cos it sparkles with that nostalgic, unexplainable luminosity. And it makes yer remember what the fucking dry land feels like.

Thanks,

overflowing ashtray

, you cunt.

So how to swim in the water without gettin' wet?

Ya, can’t, ya fucker.

Sorry about that.

You gotta get the fuck out of there.

And trust me, the water is just gettin' fucking wetter.

And even if ya dunk ya toes, it won't be long before ya fucking drinking brine like Steve Irwin’s fresh corpse.

So better to stay the fuck out of the ocean methinks.

And just remember who the fuck you are at all times instead, ya fucks.

Yer a fucking writer.

Now, eat my silver anus.

FTB

July 18, 2024

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