This Blag Thing

23 Oct

I write, therefore I am.  And fuck Descartes.  I never liked him.  He always welches on sports bets–a crime worthy of capital punishment in most corner bars in America.

Back on point–I write.  Fiction mostly, drunken rants occasionally, but the line between the two is blurry, and I’m likely to switch over at any given moment without warning.  I’m told that in order to be successful as a writer today, I must have a website.  I must have a blog.  I must promote myself and engage with the wild masses in some sort of bohemian spiritual communion of words, liberi libri or something.  So here I am.

What now?  Where do we go from here?  Are you willing to go down the rabbit hole with me, into the maddening landscape that is this godforsaken world we have the misfortune to inhabit?  No, I’m not a cynic, I’m a romantic.  I’m just not a liar; well, mostly.

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