Two years ago I decided I could, should, and damn well fucking would write a book.
My writing had been stalled by a paralyzing level of self doubt for quite some time, but when the idea occurred to me to write a hilarious collection of personal essays, I was suddenly filled with confidence. My brilliant book would be filled with funny reflections on my clumsy life, with just the right amount of dick and fart jokes sprinkled in, and its completion would provide the jump start I needed to revive my career.
I eagerly began brainstorming, making lists of every mildly interesting thing that I had ever done. I quickly poured out a couple of essays, and started a handful more. I was going to have this book put together, start to finish, within a few short months!
Then, the hypomanic episode ended.
The euphoric, productive, not-at-all-destructive hypomanic episode is the golden unicorn of the bipolar world; one tends to doubt the mythical state even exists, at least until it stabs you in the crotch and gallops its happy ass far, far away.
I was left to rot in the ditch of despair, which is actually a pretty comfortable place once you get used to it. But very little writing is done there. I shelved the book idea, and resumed my usual brooding.
Every few months though, when my shitty brain gave me a teeny tiny bit of motivation to put actual effort into something other than merely existing, my mind went back to the book. I couldn’t just let it go. But it was so damn intimidating. A whole book? I hadn't been able to even put together a coherent blog post. Still I picked away at it, working on it in between bouts of soul crushing depression, which I’m pretty sure is how most great literature is forged.
At some point I got brave enough to share what little progress I had made with my good friend (and an actual real live author, omg!!!) Heath Lowrance, and instead of blocking me on Facebook and changing his name, he actively encouraged my continued assault against the English language.
Finally, in January of this year, the matter became settled: I would finish this motherfucker.
One problem I encountered was that, despite the relatively little practice I'd gotten in, I had grown substantially as a writer since manically hammering out those first few pieces. My fart jokes seemed so ill-fitting and childish; I was a writer now, damn it. I didn’t need my old poop parlor tricks to make this turd float; I had graduated to more sophisticated humor sources… like vaginas. Seriously, if you’re not into jokes about the old penis fly trap, you might want to skip this one. But I hope you won’t.
Since I’ve been pretty much nonexistent as a writer for the last couple of years, this book will (hopefully) serve as a sort of reintroduction. And, in typically Kimmy Dee fashion, I give up way too much information on the first date. You’ll see.
Although it took a lot longer than expected, I'm incredibly proud of this book. I poured a piece of my soul onto every page, so be mindful to wash your hands after handling it.
So, without further adoo-doo (okay, so I haven’t grown that much), I present to you the ACTUAL COVER for my ACTUAL BOOK, which will be released REALLY FUCKING SOON in both print and e-book format:
I hope you all love it as much as I do!
I’d like to wish a very special Turd Mountain thank you to Heath Lowrance, who not only cracked the whip on me (not like that, pervs) to get this fucker done, but also edited the damn thing; to Ron Warren, for the kickass, very Kimmyish cover, and to Troy Lambert, for handling the whole “how do I make this 200 page document into a book” thing. You all deserve some of the blame errr credit for making PUSSY PLANET a reality. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your moms.
Watch here and/or my Facebook page for release information, and please consider buying a copy or twelve! All proceeds from Pussy Planet will go toward future cat food purchases. My pussy army thanks you in advance.