I JUST CAME OUT OF A COMA

I Counted The Hairs On My Nutsack. There’s six hundred and ninety nine

So ya wake up after the strangest of weeks and yer remember for the first time since July that yer meant to be a writer.

And that bastard, the rentfucker is knocking at yer big purple door and yer got fuck all money cos somehow everything got fourteen times as expensive in the last year.

And yer think for a second yer might get a job stacking Spam onto the shelves at the local pig market for eight bucks seventy five an hour but yer remember the owner is a creep that only hires good looking teenage girls.

So yer dip into yer Bitcoin that yer bought in 1973 for $620 and yer pleased cos it’s now worth $621 which will buy you at least four cans of cat food and some rice for the winter.

And for a second yer think about yer rich friends who have six gold credit cards supplied by their parents who work as doctors in their own practice and yer feel a few seconds of resentment rise up from yer undersized balls to the crown of yer bald, flaking scalp.

But then yer remember yer meant to believe in karma also known as cause n effect which dumb bastards think has something to do with things going round and comin round like Zebedee on some magical fucking roundabout.

So they say shit like karma bitch and they dont realise that they sound like utter noucheballs to the entire watching universe except for their fellow noucheballs who aren’t watching anyway cos they think they’re the body and that there is some personality controlling their thoughts.

But thats not the karma yer believe in. yer know its more like the more yer move in a direction, the more yer move in that direction like the momentum of an obese cruise liner filled with fuckers that think a holiday should be getting pissed while trapped in the middle of the ocean with a set of Mills N Boon and a vast collaboration of mundane couples drinking G&T and eating chicken a’la vag and watching cabaret shows with half naked gay men and women and the others n that.

Its hard to turn those bastard ships around. N thats what karma is. N yer friend has those gold credit cards cos they’ve moved in that direction before and now the gold flows like the constant gold stream from grannies panties and they couldnt stop it if they tried.

N yer know that if yer’d just kept writin and doin the shit yer were doin two years ago yer’d be a lot further down this twiggy track than yer mate Raja Ranjamaskin who wrote that Jack Flashcock series and now makes a living sellin his shit to thirty seven year old husbands and fathers who’d rather be out murdering people while wearing a tuxedo and strangling women in evening gowns with their own stockings than cleanin up the potent shite of the four year old drunken tramp child or giving it to their tired wife once a month when the OVULA app sends them a notification that their eggs are dancing like Janet Jackson.

So ya grieve for the fact that yer cant keep anythin up. And yer mind looks outward for something to blame. First yer blame yer parents for movin yer around so much when yer a kid.

Then yer blame yer PE teacher Mr Nackleson for forcin yer to shower naked with the other hairy cocked lads in yer class even though yer knob was like a smooth hairless albino slug and the source of tremendous ridicule.

Finally yer blame society and governments and corporations for buildin a pile of shit where yer cant just sit around scratchin yer nads and watching football n drinkin smoothberry coke and orderin McDangles on Uber Eats.

But then yer remember the cruise liner. It takes some time to trun this fucker around. Yer cant just jump off, ya knobhead.

So yer think yer better write something. Cos thats who yer are. Yer a writer, remember. Yer determined to die a poor bastard. And yer know that the more yer get yer shit together, the more yer cant write.

And just like that, the novel yer;’v been hatin on for months starts to feel fixable and yer write yer first diary entry in four months.

Dear Diary

I dreamed last night about being shafted by a horse. But that horse was Dave Grohl. And he had meth cuts all over his face. What do you think it means?

Is all this just a hangover from my weekend at the casino where someone dumped a dexi in my fourteens IPA of the night and I spent hours trying to find the poker room?

Why am I asking you anyway diary? You dont shit, you little prick. I’ll burn you you fucker.

And so it begins again.

Stop

Sit up in bed.

Get into lotus position but try not to catch yer nads wrong.

Focus on a tiny area four fayngers below the Naval Officer.

Chant the vajra recitation fourteen million times.

And now,

Let go of the shite — the past — the crusty cruise liner victims.

You fucked up again, yeah.

Yer fear of failure manifested as Alan Rickman in lingerie and he convinced yer to stop writing for six months.

But yer gotta confess it, then its gone — like a good Chris Tian.

And drag yerself, once again, from the ant infested, tissue pile of yer bedroom and back to yer chafing station.

Put on some mantras and write you cunt.

Just write something you fool

Write something TIT

W.R.I.T.E

All the best,

Fanny Gobknobber

*Grammarly has been excluded from this article due to non-payment.