The Wankery of The Self-Meme.

When the words alone are not enough, then please don’t hesitate to self promote in any way you feel is suitable. I always ensure that when I am chained to the laptop and furiously writing, that I am wearing a low cut top in the off chance that someone of note might be peering through my parlor window as they pass.

Cheech And Chong And Me.

The fact that I am even writing about something as pedestrian as smoking a joint in 2016 shows how far I have strayed from any semblance of cool, or freedom or whatever category the imbibing of drugs your granny probably uses has fallen into. Yet, here I am.

Love And Other Bodily Wounds.

As I grew older, it was hammered home to me, again and again, that the meek shall not inherit the earth. All they shall inherit is being stuck in the corner at parties as the hot girl tells you all her problems, because she thinks you’re ‘nice’ before she goes and fucks the brains out of the nearest loud, brain dead neanderthal.

This Is Not A Test.

I don’t know what it’s like to fight for something which might cost me my life. I have never had to weigh up duty against the need of my kids to have a living, breathing parent. I have never found a cause I was willing to die for.

A Brother’s Keeper.

How do you commemorate a Birthday in death? How do you celebrate one’s arrival when they have already departed? I would light candles for you now, in celebration, only to extinguish them in two months time in mourning. These are strange bookends.

Happiness! Destroyer Of Art!!!

I worry that words without conflict are empty platitudes. If some kind of internal massacre does not occur whilst crafting your art, then you’re just making episodes of Play School. Of course, this is utter nonsense and I’m sure that the average episode of Play School leaves a substantial amount of blood on the floor during its conception.

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