I’m sitting in the coffee shop watching a cougar picking her nose. She’s on a mission. Now she’s eating a muffin.
Anyway, my novel’s almost done. Here’s a sentence:
John Holmes stood on the bed, dangling his penis back and forth between the two girls who swatted at it with their tongues.
The whole book’s not like that. That was just an odd sentence.
One of the characters is named Stoop. He reminds me of Omar Little from the Wire:
Another character is a Mexican woman who looks like a Jew:
No, that’s Richard Simmons.
She looks like this:
And my book of poems will come out on R.L. Crow press this year. Here’s a sentence:
He removes his left arm,
unzips himself from his body
and calmly sets the fleshy parts,
one by one, before him on the desk.
So, it’ll be exciting once everything is all said and done. I never thought anyone would ever be interested in things I wrote. I never thought I would write poetry. I never thought I’d sit around up making stories all day. I never thought I’d take a break from writing to watch a cougar eating a muffin sprinkled with her own booger flakes.
Life is fucking weird.
And Jay Reatard died.