Writers are nothing but shit-slinging slutbags.
It’s been over a year since I’ve decided to pledge the fraternity of the feces-flinging floozies (I'm not saying it’s a man’s world, just that most of us would look like shit in those tight sorority sweaters) and I’m still ass-deep in the hazing process. Hopefully someday I’ll gain enough confidence in my crap to actually refer to myself as one of them: ***A WRITER*** <Insert some sort of mystical “sprinkling fairy dust” music here>.
|This is why we don't wear the sweaters.|
There’s very little whoring going down in the writing community. I mean sure, sometimes we luck out and luxuriously trade our tales for a pack of smokes or fifth of whiskey, but generally we let just about anyone have their way with our words for nothing. (I’m only saying “we” because I think I’ve spread my seedy shit to enough websites to have completed the “Realize That ‘Freelance’ is Exactly What it Sounds Like” part of my initiation.)
Sure, very few writers would complain about turning their trade into an opportunity to be run over by a fucktard in a van while taking a leisurely stroll near their Maine mansion. NOTE: Preceding comment is not meant to be a shot at Mr. King— his novels and short stories have brought me near bowel-bursting enjoyment my entire life. Plus, we’re Birthday buddies—a fact I’m sure he’s just as proud of as I am. At least he pretends to be when he finds me camped out below his bedroom window, right before he calls the cops... but I digress.
As few as five percent of writers can afford to even flush their own toilets with the money they earn off their written works. So why the hell do so many shitheads like me waste their time, energy, and alliterative poop puns (okay, that part might just pertain to me) in hopes of someday being initiated into the impoverished gang of grammarists that call themselves writers?
Maybe it’s so we can use words like “grammarists” despite MS Word’s squiggly little accusation of word fraud. “Fuck you, spell check—I’m a WRITER!”
Or maybe it’s because we don’t work well with others, and value our pasty complexions and sedentary lifestyles. “I would exercise, but I’m BURIED here. Words that rhyme with ‘diarrhea’ don’t just fall from God’s ass, you know.”
Maybe it’s because spending hours, days, weeks, or months obsessing over every turn of phrase seems worthwhile if one person skims through it on the shitter and is entertained enough to leave a kind word…. or at least refrain from saying they want to fuck your mother while they watch you die a slow, painful death.
Or maybe, just maybe, we do it because-- like any noble slut-- we fucking enjoy it and don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.
Whatever the reason, I’m proud to announce that a few weeks ago I received my first official rejection from a publication for a fiction piece. Another hazing ritual has been completed. I haven’t had the time, ambition, or proper fiber intake to work on much of shit lately but I still have a few flaming turd bags out there waiting to be properly stomped on. And who knows, maybe someday I’ll poop out a piece that actually floats and become the lowly fiction writer I’ve always dreamed of being. If that day ever comes, my loyal Shitheads here at the Mount will be the first to know.
But whatever happens from here, for fuck’s sake leave my mother out of it. Assholes.