Ramblings of a Desiccated Mind

Well, people are still comin' around here? Fuck me. You want answers? Explanations? Stopped giving a crap for a while, how's that? Every time I looked at the news, the veins in my forehead and neck pulsed a little bit harder. I'm finding it harder and harder to breathe, but that may just be the unfiltered cigarettes I smoke now because I'd have to sell baby meat in order to afford to smoke a regular goddamned pack.

Anyhow, this is the new shit, like the song says. I'm at the crossroads, like another song says, and I'm going to try and go with the flow, as yet another song says because this nigger is getting old, and my chronological clock is ticking.

A few notes, the website, yes, is still down. I have to pay off my web hosts, and then I have to find someone who would be willing to work artistically on the site for next to nothing, if not nothing itself. I will make an announcement when I am ready to deal with that, this is just perfunctory fun. All of my software is either dead, or irretrievable, so I am in a bit of a "creative stranglehold," if you will. In a way this is good, because it means the only fucking thing I can do on this computer is jack off or write ... a fine line, I know. Of course, in order to write fiction, one must have ideas, so that's the next hurdle. A while ago I remember I said I was going to be putting little bits of the novel that is complete out here for you to gawk at, but that isn't a good idea, all the grisly bits will be spoiled, and the six or seven pages of actual plot left will be predictable.

But I want to do something serialized, and online, etc., etc., but again, inspirado is the missing ingredient. It'll come to me. I'm getting hungry ... or forcing myself to eat ... almost like that guy in SE7EN.

There was something about a newsletter too ... yes, that has fallen by the wayside for now because it is just too much to psychologically maintain both here and there, and, frankly, I like it here better. So those of you who haven't jumped ship, keep your subscriptions, when and if ever I have real fucking news I will post something there. Until then, this place is my preferred mode of interaction with the public at large.

So, last year's random hostilities directed at me and my work are definitely not forgotten, but I'm over you now. I was forced to hang with my doppleganger for a while, the fellow who wanted to be good, and accepted, and praised ... but he's all gone now. Now there's just, for lack of a better phrase, nothing left but the ragged bits.

Jeffrey Dahmer, homosexual cannibal, freezer full of human meat, trying to Black & Decker himself a young, black, zombie sex slave gets sloppy, a potential victim escapes, Jeff goes to jail and is murdered in a scene out of some Burt Reynold's prison flick, okay?

Okay ... so, was he murdered because he was a cannibal, or because he was gay? If it was because of his cannibalism, then was the motivation simply the fear that Jeff would never be an adequate prison bitch because he happened to like a little salt on his meat? And if it was because he was gay, then where were all the hate-crime protests?

I know Jeff was a sick, sick boy, but I just got to wondering about this little nugget a moment ago, contemplating M.J.'s fate if and when he finally gets absorbed by the legal system and winds up doing hard time for plying minors with alcohol in order to play with their Wish Foundation dingle's, so I thought I might share.

I expect the reason that Jeff was killed was never so cut and dry, but you never know.

I bet if he'd done all those terrible things, and been a big, burly boy, it might not have gone down that way. Maybe they'd have shanked him in the night if they were really that prepared to do away with him, but who's to say. Not me, that's for sure, just the rambling of a sober mind.

I just tooled back to answer a post reply I got recently, and it was buried in one of the surreal, judgmental attacks that came at me 'bout this time last year, so I would just like to reiterate the point that a) I have not been smoking my dear, dear weed for about a year now (financial reasons, not moral or religious), and b) I feel worse now than I did then. I'm less productive, I am more erratic and slothful, and I find it much, much, much harder to fall asleep.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

Hell yeah.

You anti-marijuana fuckbergs can tell me about it when you fucking clean up your own acts and stop drinking, smoking tobacco, fucking, or whatever the fuck else it is you do to kill the time.

So goddamned tired of your opinions.

As a matter of fact, let's have a new rule around here:

NEW RULE: if you don't agree with something I post, or have an opinion that differs even minutely from that of my own in regard to anything except matters of the entertainment media, then shut the fuck up, and get the fuck out of here because I don't want you, need you, or like you, you dig?

Holy shit, am I going to start censoring people's opinions around here?

Yeah, you're goddamned right I am, 'cause chances are we wouldn't get along in the first place, and right now I don't need your shit, least of all to get involved in those stupid, ranting internet "discussions" I used to be so fond of. So play nice around here. My hackles go up even the slightest little bit, and I am canning your ass, motherfucker.

You don't know me, you only know the weight of my words, and you can hear the clack of my typewriter on the floor below me when I get going, you dig?

Groovy.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em, people, nobody's going to live forever.
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I thought of another one, and you're going to love this:

NEW RULE: if you have an opinion about my fiction, and you don't supply your Critic's Credentials or prove to me that you are another author whose opinion I should take seriously, and especially if you are under the age of 24, then keep your opinions to yourself, because I don't want to hear it. I have enough difficulty finding an objective eye for my own stuff than to welcome every snot-nose with something to say about what a struggling writer should or shouldn't do on the pages s/he creates from his or her own mind. Writing is difficult, if everybody could do it then everybody would be published. I may not have the proper book-learnin' that many of my contemporaries have, but I put my back into learning the craft, and, as any writer will tell you, everything that you write is just a lesson for learning how to write the next thing a little better.

Well, they might not tell you that in such a convoluted matter as I've just expressed, but that's why editing is the major part of writing fiction.

I can talk to you about practical matters of craft, I can help you look for things that make your writing weak, but unless you work for Publisher's Weekly or are related in some manner to Stephen King, I really don't want to know what you think ... unless you loved it. But you start talking about hackdom, and trying to egg me on like some have done in the past, and that, admittedly, drew me into a defensive posture because of those sleights -- those anonymous, incredible sleights ... but you come around here to pull any of that shit, then your first line better read, "I am so and so, from this publication/publishing house," and then you can go on to tell me all the reasons why my writing sucks.
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Hey, and another thing ... if I know you in real life, and you have some political opposition to something I say around here, and you're not an LJ member, then sign off in some manner that I will know who the fuck you are with or without giving up your identity, and then I will treat you with less hostility than I might an anonymous poster, k? Thanks.

Anonymous posters piss me off.

Today's entries were supposed to be one short, little burst. But, as it is with all things old ... they become new again.

Much more orderly and relaxed procession to follow in the days and weeks ahead, I kind of blew a gasket and had some crap I apparently needed to get off my chest.