Writing On Medium is Like Shagging On A Roller Coaster

You're in for a rough ride, fuckers.

And

yeah, sometimes it’s hard and yer in, and it’s slick and yer moving in a rhythm like Herbie Hancock’s grandma. But then it slips out, and it’s flapping all over the place and poking and prodding, and she’s saying, ow, ow, ow. And then, by some fluke, it flaps into the right spot, and it’s in and sliding rhythmically again.

And

it’s Wednesday, and yer pumped cos yer just whacked out a high-quality rant about some fucking temporary meat bag with a set of opinions that you disagree with. N it’s doing alright, but some people hate yer for it.

And

yer pretend yer give a fuck, but yer don’t. Then yer follow it with a deeply conceived tale of public masturbation, and yer imagine people soaking their g-strings and crying into the corned beef at the family dinner table. Then yer concern yerself with falling into the autoeroticism niche again, so yer take the second 2000 word wanking story yer wrote this week and yer sideline it and publish a couple of stuck up poems yer wrote after yer third cup of tea and too many protein yoghurts while yer was washing yer anus on the newly installed Joe Bidet which ya bought with the proceeds from the last celebrity bag out session yer wrote.

And

for the third time this week, yer wonder if yer poems are shite or if yer just got shadowbanned by the Medium AI extravaganza like Mike Knittel for having an opinion that falls outside the guidelines of the Shitstain-Industrial Complex or just for talking about autoeroticism and saying the word ‘cunt’ more than the allowed 42 times in a week.

And

yer wonder for the eighth time this week if ya should find a niche like how to lick a pussy or depressing but important political shite, but some fucker says to ya that,

You are the niche

And

yer balls tingle and yer pupils dilate with pride. So ya write another world-changing article that will easily make you a minimum $4.90 in taxable income before it floats off into the ether, never to be heard from again like Julian Assange.

And

forty-two people look at it, and ya consider becoming a janitor and cleaning corporate skidmarks off porcelain pits and pubic hairs that range from the thick and black to the blonde and barely material. Cos ya think it gives ya more shit to write about, but it don’t cos cleaning pubes ain’t that interesting.

And

just like that, it’s back in, and it’s moving in rhythm like Justin Timberlake’s ballbag — swinging back and forth but invisible to his fans. Until the next cock rocket comes out of nowhere and makes yer knob slip out and flap around while yer going round one of those fast corners or dark tunnels or yer looping the motherfucking loop like Hemmingway on Acid.

But

yer keep going. Yer, keep writing on this electronic device, and fucking yer eyeballs and yer wrist that you swear is down to the vertical mouse that is ‘more comfortable’ and not from the excessive amount of actual masturbation yer have been engaging in for research purposes.

And

yer thinking, if I can just knock out a million of these bastard stories, I will be as rich as Umair or the Wild chick. I’ll be snorting Yuzu powder off salted beavers cooked in vermouth before I know it. I’ll buy a house for this fucker and that fucker, and I’ll finally get new teef, and a new nose and my ears pinned back and new legs and one of those shaves where they give you a beer and they wank you off at the same time.

And

for the seventeenth time, that week yer wonder if its time to start yer Substack newsletter, but ya don’t. Cos yer don’t wanna give those fuckers the same shite as yer put on Medium but yer thinking, if yer publish it on Substack yer won’t make any loot, and it proves that ya just in it for the money like a cunt but its hard not to be when the costs R stacking, and the wallet is filled with more cobwebs than Margaret Thatcher’s decaying vagina.

And

then someone sticks you in their writing club cos ya liked one of their posts, and ya start getting tagged in spammy lists from writers welcoming ya to the group. So ya go on a rampage and tell em all to fuckin stop it. But then ya feel guilty about being a prick.

And

then ya remember that ya just don’t give a fuck. Ya remember that writing on Medium is like shagging on a roller coaster and its gonna slip in and out and you’ll get close to spunking but ya might never get there unless ya just fucking write about Monkeypocks or some fucking app that scores yer titles out a hundred but ya know ya never will so ya wave bye bye to the spunk party and settle in for a lifetime of writing shit about pussies and titties and cocks and politicians and Buddha until the sun motherfucking sets and shoots ya consciousness out of ya body at sixteen hundred billion miles an hour landing ya slap bang in the middle of the brightest sun yerve ever seen in a delicious infinity swimming pool with everyone yerve ever known and no such fucking thing as death or separation and ya stay there fer at least fifteen seconds before yer god damn habitual karma wind fires yer back into the sky where yer see millions of horny bastards fucking — and yer find a pair that interest ya and yer fuckin jealous as fuck cos ya dont have a fuckin body and that desire sucks yer into ya mommas stomach where yer sit and wait and go through all the fuckin shite again so ya can just write on Medium again but in another fucking body. And all cos ya couldn’t let go of yer own conceptual turd. Fuck it.

And

how was your week, Reverend?

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