Oh Shit…

So, you know that moment when you sit at your desk, couch, Polish sausage making station and you decide – “Hey, I think it’s time.” And you write. And write. Get the gall to tell your job to leave you alone and walk out the door. Those sausages smell good, be they made of meat, tofu, children’s tears… And you’re feeling pretty damn decent about your life choices to pursue your dreams. Your career goals. Your “you”. After all, you can’t fully explore the glory that is sausage making and writing while your head is full of someone else’s problems and your ears bleed from their inability to use a cellular device… or a key pad. When the tiny voice on the other side says “press ‘1’” you don’t have to keep pressing it six, seven, eight, a hundred times. Just once.

You’re feeling pretty good about it. Even so good as to look in  your inbox  to see what lovely modicum of hope has made its way to your tiny glowing screen… Rejection. But that’s okay, stiff upper lip, that wasn’t what you wanted anyway. You keep plugging along, still feeling good about your abilities, some faith still lodged in your cortex that everything will work out for the better. You’re good at what you do, right?

Several hours go by, you’ve pounded your fingers into calloused anvils, and you’re more tired now than the time your crazed PE teacher made you run through the entirety Presidential Fitness Test in the third grade. Another blip on the screen. A little dingle and a dangle. The notorious email envelop with its bouncing number jumps around, trying its hardest to frantically notify you that someone wants to communicate with you. “Rejection”

It’s been three weeks and an inbox full of “Sorry but you suck.” You haven’t written anything in days. Your finger tips are soft like a new born calf’s hide, and you have all but forgotten what a comma does in sentence. Even if you were writing you’d barely know what it’s supposed to do, but at least you’d make it look fancy.

You pray to whatever god you believe in – be it the enraged psycho in the “Good Book” or the relaxed elephant carrying a hatchet and giving you a doped out nod. “At this point,” you think aloud, “Who gives a fuck? Might as well go all out on the crazy train.” You don’t have much else to lose. Your self worth has jumped ship. You remember why you went back to the craze of a shit-stained 9-5. And yet, for some unforeseen reason, you are refusing to settle back into the heavenly crap shoot that is the modernized, yet so outdated, workforce. Bills be damned.

Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. And so on and so forth. Until…

Head full of fire. Gut full of stones.

In the mind of this writer exists three people – sounds crazy and boring, like everything everyone else has ever said about anything. Yeah, maybe it is, but sit the fuck down and listen.

There’s the beaten down, postgrad student (PGS) who works a shit job, taking shit calls and pretending to give a fuck, all the while hating herself for ever agreeing to do this customer service bullshit in the first place. Remember, “It’s just a job. It pays the bills until you do what you want to do. It’s not fucking permanent. Just the beginning of you life.”

And while some of the above horseshit may be true, it shouldn’t be used by the “Hippie Love Child” that exists in here. She would be number two – in all fucking facets of the goddamn phrase. She fucking “understands all problems and everyone’s issues.” She is the reason for the rocks filling my gut and sinking me. Honestly, she’s the one who goes, “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine. We just need to rest. It will come to us.” Which sends the PGS up there into a fucking frenzy. She’s just the fucking greatest. She sits on her ass and watches T.V while sipping on God knows what shit drink and goes, “That’s gonna be us one day. But it takes time and right now we just need to relax.” I can’t begin to tell you what that does to Me.

She drives me fucking nuts. I swear to fucking Christ she drives me up a goddamn tree, strings the noose and lets me swing. Dumb bitch forgot how to tie the goddamn thing though, and there I go. Falling from the tree, snapping an ankle and going after her like she fucking stole something. Which she did, if you think about it. She stole fucking everything… Except my box of matches. My head is full of fire. I am the one who has the desires, the wants, the twisted notions of trampling vast majorities of people and making the world a better fucking playground for me and people like me. I’m the one who sits up until 4 a.m. and writes words on paper that don’t make any sense, and force my fingers to slip and fall across the goddamn keys. I’m the one that wants to take the fucking Hippie Love Child out back and beat her within an inch of her existence and then swallow that existence, feed my soul a little bit and stomp out her ideological horseshit!

She sends PGS into fits of, “I can’t do this. I’m gonna fail at everything. Maybe I should just give up and quit. There have been hundreds before me. Millions. I’m not an original–” blah blah blah. And then I have to sit in here, and listen to that bullshit. I’m not like the rest of you who can walk away from the computer, close the window, stop listening. I’m fucking stuck in this skull. Constantly talking her off a ledge. Trying to help her gain her confidence back when that dumbass Hippie opens her mouth and tells her that it’s okay if she doesn’t make it. The fuck it is!

Listen, PGS: You’ll be broke, working nowhere if you give up on this. Since you seem to need the motivation to keep it rolling, let me give it to you. I will make you quit your shit job and put a pen in your hand and make you write through the tears. All the while, you’re gonna feel like shit because you’re not pulling your weight, because you have no job, because you pissed me off. See how it’s a vicious cycle? So get your shit together, woman up and move. Seriously. I dunno when the fuck we invited that Hippie shit into this war, but she shouldn’t be here. Fist fights, bloody mouths and screaming Leprechauns for all, but none of that “what will be will be” shit. This is your goddamn life. Fuck her and get it done.

unholy delight

Mad Sweeney – American Gods


Head full of fire.



Finally gotten around to writing. The mental team of insane clown writers has been too tired to critique anything, and I’ve successfully logged my brain into overdrive for so long that I don’t know how to do just one thing. I mean there’s really not much for me to do. Move is over. Things are changed and working. Only thing that I have to adapt to is working. And who doesn’t have to adapt to working. Managed to scribble a few new thoughts here and there, but it’s mostly crap (it’s all crap).

Have a thousand ideas and not a finger to get them started. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve gotten a lot of them started, I just have yet to… you know… complete one. Have all these new ideas for old works, and all of these new ideas for new works but I don’t know where to go or start or — Scotch.

Nothing can save the mind like a good, old fashioned, three-finger glass of single malt Scotch (you capitalize the proper names – like God. You’ll get that one eventually.)

Anyway, off to the mental races and the hand torture chambers known as pen and paper. Maybe I’ll type a little more if I get the chance to think a little harder about the Doc. Maybe the Doc can put my Scotch down and open his mouth to tell me what the hell happened to him so I can put it on paper. Maybe the Doc needs a good smack in the face with a baseball bat before I lose my shit thanks to him not speaking. And maybe the Doc will stare at me with a death glare cold enough to freeze the blood of Cthulhu. Maybe I don’t mess with the Doc and we both have a drink and he talks when he’s ready.

Yeah, that one sounds like the best chance of survival.

Just a little bit…better?

So the move went swimmingly. Really. Minimal screaming fits, no holes in walls, didn’t knock anyone out, and only cussed out like 3 people in New York. I love my New Yorkers but you guys can’t drive for shit. Like not at all. 

That all being said, the candlemaker aspect of my person is unhappy. I have all the oils, now all I need is the wax and jars. That has to wait. Candlemaking doesn’t pay bills. I do it because I like fire. And I guess I like you guys too. So give me a second, and I’ll add the Shopify thingy. 

However, I have been writing. Granted it hasn’t been to finish the third book. But I have been writing to finish up a few other short stories. And I might have started another project or six. Don’t worry. My wonderful sis/roommate is making me do writer’s boot camp. My asshole brother has given me all the words of advice and … Fuck him for this but… He’s right. Gotta pick up and start again. Being stagnant after the big move is a problem. So whether they know it or not, they’re working in tandem. Because they’re alike in every way. Yep. I said that. 

Gonna regret it.

Well I’m off to awkwardly communicate with new people and write things about people in books. Might even get the chance to… You know… Slide a chapter into that third work.

Holy shit….

I was going to start off by telling you to lay off me. I’m moving. I haven’t had the time to update this thing or write shorts… Or really do much of anything. Then I saw the date. It’s been four flippin’ months! To my five viewers – viewership has been great! But really… That’s good for me. Keep your sympathy claps. It’s probably fine. 


Let me have it. Give me the glares and the words. Give me your judgements. I deserve them. Or something. Maybe a punch in the face, shake some of this spring snot out of my sinus holes. 

That’s gross. I apologize for that…

But! Moving is happening. And this is stressful. It’s stressful in the worst sense of the word. Not because of relocation. Not because it’s a completely new thing where I have zero idea of what to do or how to do it. No. Nope. That’s good. All good. The problem?
Boxes. Everywhere. All the time. Forever. They will never go away. They’re worse than laundry and dishes combined. They hold my whole life and are highly flammable with highly flammable things inside and spark-inducing triggers. Whose bright, flippin’ idea was that?! Put your whole life in a box and move it somewhere else while simultaneously hoping someone doesn’t drown it in gasoline and throw a lit cigarette at it. WHO WOULD DO THAT?! ….

 I probably would. I like fire. Look at the name…. But those damn boxes… Might need a smoke just to deal with the thought of potentially setting all of my things on fire… 

Make a drink

Have a stogie

Put stuff in boxes

Seal the boxes

Pour the drink on the boxes

Toss the stogie on the soaked boxes

Toast marshmallows 

No more boxes to move….

I sense a solution.

Ideas… Shut up… Seriously? Again?!

As of today, the chronicles start.

And you start trying to be edgy and weird, telling people what’s going on inside your head.

Yes, because that’s just what I do. At least I think it’s what I —

“At least I think it’s what I do” You seriously can’t figure out what the fuck it is you do?

Id, I swear to —

To who? You’re just ranting on a screen and no one wants to listen to that. There’s a reason you don’t work in the–

Dude! Chill! Lay off Ego! She finally gets an idea and you shit on it!

Some Super you are, using all that foul language and shit.

No one said I had to be verbally celibate. You, on the other hand, need to calm down, make us all drinks and stop harshing people’s shit for five seconds, you condescending shitstain.

Five seconds of shhhh… Please, can we just shhh for at least five seconds?

This would be funnier with cartoons. Like little drawings of shit.

We know what cartoons are, Id.

Shut your fucking mouth, Super.


What the hell did I EVER do to you, huh?

I don’t know, added a pretentious holier-than-thou attitude to just about everything you do?

At least I figure out other ways than “kill it” ‘Nah, don’t kill it.”

The fuck’s wrong with that?!

It’s unilateral!

See?! There you go with that pretentious vocabulary shit!


How is being educated pretentious? And what about the word “pretentious?” Isn’t that condescending? Or are you above the opinions of your own–


Thank you! …. Fuck, I forgot what I was doing….