Well I've been doing shitty. Yesterday I was barely making ends-meet working as a dime-novelist in 1870s New England. My novels were all about the same man, a fictional cowboy with an impossibly large number of children and a beef with the Union Pacific. I called him Fertile Bill.
Critics claimed I could be the greatest novelist of the 19th century if I got out of the Train-Violence/Porn game and focused my efforts on a more respectable genre. I always told those uptight daffodils the same thing:
But, overall, things were going alright for me. I had enough money for food and booze and toy trains and lacy little braziers that you can put on toy trains. What more could I want? Plus, I was about finished with my magnum opus, Fertile Bill Traps a Train Then Finds Work Testing Contraceptives. In truth, I was nervous about how the public would react to it, as much of the novel is dedicated to an exhaustive description of what Fertile Bill calls an "Oklahoma Train Trap."
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| Yeah. Think about it. |
Then everything went to shit. I was at home writing last night when there was a knock on the door. Waiting for me on the porch was a very short, bearded man with full cowboy accoutrement.
"Dear Christ, you're the shortest fucking cowboy I've ever seen!" I greeted him kindly.
"RAAAAAAAAHHHRRG," he replied, and kicked me six feet back into my house. I wasn't about to have any of that shit from a tiny cowboy, so I tackled him into my yard and beat him to death. As I was pulling out his wallet for completely admirable reasons an ID card fell to the ground.
HOLY FUCK BLOG AAAAHHHHH!!! XOXOXOXO
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