My new collection The Pussy is out. Pay for The Pussy, own The Pussy, put The Pussy on a pedestal, etc.
Need to kill somebody today. Take my axe to the park. Start chopping up babies and old people. I pray for nuclear war. Every second of life too agonizing. This is from having difficulty with revising the page numbers in my book proof.
I want there to not be page numbers on the endpapers. For this you must insert a section break. Then delete the page numbers from the desired section. But the header in the new section defaults to being “linked” to the last section. So when you delete the page numbers in the new section, it deletes them in the last section, aka the meat of the book. Fix it, delink the section breaks, delete the page numbers. But your odd and even page numbers are different header types. So you have to manually go in and delete the even numbered page numbers as well. Which you have forgotten are linked to the previous sections header by default. So it deletes even page numbers in the whole book.
Each time you correct a typo your file is re-reviewed for 24 hours. I will release this book when I’m 150 fucking years old. You finally delete both odd and even page numbers in your new section. The fucking three pages at the back, which no one, you realize now– no one on Earth, and certainly no one out of the fucking six people who’ll shell out four dollars extra for a hard copy of the shit they’ve already read on your web site, instead of the e-book– not one of those fucking people would have cared about the 3 blank pages in the back having page numbers for one one billionth of an instant. It literally affects nothing. Except that it ruins your entire day to sit screaming a the keys in a rage that shit never just fucking works. Everything in life– beating off, flossing your teeth– every single fucking thing is an expedition up K2 requiring weeks of fastidious planning. If you fuck up one small thing it’s disaster. Nothing works. No person or machine or system will ever do the slightest thing for you. You must hack and hack and hack at it until what was supposed to be a fun project is the trigger for your suicide. And when you’re dead there won’t even be a fucking book to remember you by. The files weren’t approved. Kill everyone. Kill everyone.
I can’t post anything because I’d be “wasting“ it now. Page views must lead to a link to the book. Can’t get the link up until Createspace has approved my new, identical file. Fine– fucking holiday weekend, no one’s reading shit anyway.
There cannot ever have been a person as miserable as me. Elie Wiesel died. There is not a moment in Night when he was as unhappy as reformatting this piece of shit made me. Forced marches over Poland in winter. Single rotten carrot stashed in your ass to sustain you for eight weeks. One death camp to another. The new one always worse. Your father’s teeth knocked out with the butt of a sturmgewehr. Elderly cobblers cannibalizing their children in front of you. God reaching down from heaven specifically to tell you, in the only unambiguous message ever received from God: there’s no plan here. It’s all fucked. All suffering is for nothing. I do not exist. That would be preferable.
If I become Hitler my Auschwitz will be rows of laptops. Word 2013. The gate says Welcome Microsoft Office Power Users. You need to format a collection of blog posts that will sell five copies. Make people work gray collar office jobs while blogging about OKCupid for four years. Give them the fleeting idea that some of it’s good. Make them wade through their 650 repetitive posts, copy paste from WordPress into Microsoft a billion times to correct the god damn page numbers– they’d choose the gas.
Anyway, fuck holiday weekends. Fuck Fourth of July. Fuck America. A shit society that should have been destroyed. I wish the Japanese had won. Probably be a ton of Jap pussy running around. I wish any alternate timeline had happened where I don’t exist. Or that fucking page numbers were intuitive to fix in Office 2013. One of the two.
All right– enough fuckin negativity. It’s done. It looks good. All I want is: one new person sees it on a toilet tank. Opens it and laughs. So go buy one for your grandmother. I’m done marketing; it’s cutting into my porno time.