You already know the world is just…fucking with us, right?

Know what I mean? Guy comes home with great fucking news that he’s been given a raise, got some promotion, got a bonus or something he didn’t know about. What does his wife tell him? They got some bill that insurance doesn’t cover that basically swallows up the amount of the raise or bonus.

You have a weird fucking dream about some girl you wanted to bang in high school. Two days later, she’s with her kids in front of you in line at the store. This shit always happens and I know for a fucking fact it isn’t just to me.

I’m a writer. I mean, that’s what I tell my mother when she asks how work is going. It’s what i wrote under my name tag at the fucking lame-as-hell reunion I decided to attend a few weeks back. Stories about writers are really getting outta control. Problem is, I have fucking rent due like the rest of the world, and I’m fucking done with mindless bullshit jobs. Just about everything after this paragraph is true.

I told you I’m a writer. That, truthfully, is bullshit. I mean, yes. I’m writing right now, and you might actually be reading it. Before you had the chance to read it, though, I wasn’t a real writer. Like, I mean, italicized Writer. I was waiting tables for a while and trying to write. I took a few classes at some nameless college twenty miles from here and that made me write for a while but I stopped going because, well, I thought I’d learned what I needed to learn.