I'm Pimping Out My Anus To Pay an Editor

Call me the scarlet whore

I have to do it.

Because standing in front of my wife who is looking over our bills, telling me we are creeping further into debt because the fucking supermarkets have tripled their prices, and trying to justify to her why I should continue to spend hours a day working on my novel and my blog is nothing short of ludicrous.

And trying to convince her that we should use the cash stash under the goldfish bowl in our bedroom to pay someone to edit my novel is even further proof that I’m losing my mind.

So I’m giving you the option to pay for my stuff.

And it feels just as insane asking fellow broke writers to pay you money but it’s just hitting that damn point where I’ll be working in the Post Office soon like Bukowski or doing semen retention trials like

Mike Knittel

which might be fine and probably good for the process but I have this condition where any kind of workplace makes me instantly fill my y-fronts with liquid from both holes.

So look, inspired by

Jimmy Doom

and his relentless writing discipline, I have decided to write as much as I can on this platform before it becomes an abandoned playground slash soon-to-be new office building like Medium.com. And if you pay me the meagre sum of one seven-eleven cappuccino a week you can have it all like Jeremy Gatsby, my neighbour.

If you can’t pay me, you can still have approximately 30% of my literary spunk to do with what you will. But if you can spare some change, guv, you can have the rest of the damn chamber. I’ll empty my reserves for you, sweating profusely every moment like a man on his third consecutive wank.

And you can listen to my damn podcast if I ever start it.

So have mercy you fuckers.

Prop me up like a bean-stuffed Jesus effigy on Easter Sunday and in return I’ll soak your face in bone broth every day.

Yours gracefully

Frankenstein T Bird

PS: Shout out to

Betsy

for being my first. I won’t forget it.

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