The ignoble profession of writing
Everyone gossa get paid. I get it. But do you have to lie through your teeth for a paycheck?
James Frey had the cajones to go on “Oprah” lying about being a recovering addict in his hyperbole-rich “autobiography” “A Million Little Pieces”. Only to have it revealed as “A Million Little Packs of Shit” not long thereafter.
But what most kills me are these celebrity autobiographies. I mean, do you really expect me to believe that Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie sat down, put pen to paper, and came up with enough words to constitute a book? Ghost writers oughta be slaughtered.
Anyways, I was watching “Mama’s Family” the other day, and I think Bubba stuffed his crotch.
This past week has been sheer hell at work. I’ve felt like a Borg drone, soulessly processing paperwork for the hive.
And my cutie-in-waiting, Darren, called me the Sunday before last wanting to have lunch, but I had to decline. I was still recovering from bottom shelfing it on Friday, and sounded like Large Marge at best. I have doubts as to whether anything will come of it anyways. Plus I think I lost his number. One of the reasons fags find it so difficult to kick-start a relationship is because we’re all so goddamn flaky. But did I mention how cute he was? And how his favorite Care Bare Cousin is Swift Heart Rabbit?
I wish there was a Fuck-this-shit Bear in Care-A-Lot. That’d be me. When the shit goes down and some mess happens, I’d add my two cents in and be all like, “Fuck this shit, nyah!”
