Oh fuck the last person you fucked and get over it

I don’t want fame and fortune. I really don’t. I am not a greedy man. All I want is for the things I love (writing, editing other people’s writing, blogging) to bring just enough money so that I can cast off the corporate chains. $17,000 a year would allow me subsistence. Sure, it would be a huge cut in pay, but I’d be fucking happy. Well, as happy as I am capable of being.

Anyone want to pay me 17k to write for them? Anyone? Anyone? How’s about 10K? I could wait tabled part time to make up the difference.

Anyone want a to re-publish Mr. Overby is Falling when it goes out of print?

Anyone want to hear the idea I have for expanding a great web anthology to a print book?

Anyone want to coat me in kerosene and set me on fire?

And now, the news:

“The things that are killing me today”

A bottle of sour mash and six packs of cigarettes
The ghost of her scent and a shadow that shouldn’t be there
An empty stomach and no desire to eat
Baudelaire’s poems and Tom Waits’ lyrics
The black bird outside the window and the blood on his wing
The malignancy growing inside me
and the clock on the wall feeding it

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