Morning skies

If you haven't looked at the six am skies yet, you probably should.

Fall is near!

Hmmm. Writing...

Eleven beers and an indefinite grin, I can't say I'm thinking at all about writing at the moment.

Happy, happy, happy.

Not really, but you understand addictive habits, yes?


It appears that authorship is truly something "rare," despite the infinite amount of books with pasted-on "New York Times Bestseller." I suppose I am designed for failure, that my "voice" with writing is something along the lines of a crude, apathetic retaliation against all the political theory I failed to present and prompt growth.
I tried writing something today in regards to it being published. I intentionally began a project in the idea that it would absolutely be bought and sold.
I stopped about a page in.

What was it about? Oh you silly thiefs, of course you'd like to know. I'll tell you, because I don't give a fuck at this wonderful time of six am.
Joshua. Apparently that is the real name of Jesus according to historians.
Joshua. It's actually quite an epic name if you think about it. Joshua. Anyway, the idea is that Christ is "reborn" in a lovely, horrible area (my idea was west orange, NJ) and that he is this white, gorgeous person whom not only has an incredible shot but also takes an incredible shot and dies. Bascially, some rascal (mine was named Lamar) becomes, somehow, in cahoots with this transfer student Joshua and that he essentially learns all the racist, bigotist, crude, unintelligent dogma's of Christianity and at the end Joshua dies via Pay-It-Forward style and Lamar becomes this sort of pilgrim.
Dumb.
But this is the type of garbage that sells! It's so very, very weird to me. How do people adore this partial theological nonsense which I can assure 40% of was written by smitten, angry mates like myself.

Ugh.
Either way, I didn't write it and instead stared at the unfinished, unedited short story of mine entitled "Rachel's Status." What's it about? I can't tell you because when I posted my damn stories on writerscafe.org they all got stolen and I had to hound down fifteen people and threaten them with copyright law unless they removed them.
So nobody can know and thus, nobody can read.

Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid.
Oh, but my pabst is here.
Not so lonely!!