Can’t write. But I have to post every day. Why– because I have a new book out. While writing it I stopped posting. When I stopped posting people stopped coming. Page views all time low after all time low, plus blogging in general, reading, collective IQ all headed for the toilet; if I show face, make videos, do people’s podcasts to promote it I’ll get fired.
So fucking get fired. But the money’s too good. If my book continued selling as well as it has been for these two launch days– if it kept up like that forever I’d make half what I make at work. You can’t make money being a writer.
Which is good, I once thought. Because if you can’t do something for money, that frees it up from having to be like every Medium article. Which used to be there aren’t enough black people on some horseshit TV show and are now Top 11 Lifehacks of the World’s Most Successful CEOs. All writing for money is horseshit.
Except my shit is horsehit now too. These words I’m typing are horseshit. Because I’m thinking about them being on the blog. Thinking about people reading them. Not even about – will this be a successful post, because no it won’t. It’s not good, and nothing ever pops anymore. Someone with 300 thousand Twitter followers posts a ringing endorsement of my shit, it’s retweeted to a million people collectively and it gets me 300 views. This story got pumped as a moral fable about the evils of gwai lo cryptocurrency in fucking China and it got me a few hundred views. You can’t get famous being a writer.
And if you don’t show face you can’t get pussy being a writer. I learned this the hard way. Do not listen to Charles Bukowski on this– it ain’t 1972. You gotta have fame plus face. When people stopped knowing what I actually look like and only had my woe is me I’m ugly posts to go off, suddenly there was 0.0 internet fame pussy coming. And I needed that pussy.
What the fuck am I gonna do. My AA sponsor said why don’t you submit to publishers. Because I’m afraid to hear no. And I used to be the guy reading slush piles, and I don’t– my book does not belong in a fucking slush pile for Cassidy Brown Schwartzman (Yale ’16) to fucking not read because they only want Pacific Islander authors. My book does not deserve this.
Plus publishers give you 4%. So if my book sold 70,000 copies I’d make half what I make at work. You can’t make money being a writer.
But the main thing is: what publishers want is someone with social media presence who can market themselves. Well then what the fuck do I need you for. The entire point would be to not– I just want to stop marketing myself. I want someone the fuck else to fucking do it for me. Someone else to do something, anything, one motherfucking thing. I had to move, I had to write this book, I have to work, I have to chase women– can one god damn package with a pile of cash and a woman in it just show up at my fucking door. It’d be like The Pearl, these unexpected riches would ruin my life.
Anyway I can’t post this morning. Maybe I’ll cold call Simon and Schuster. A comely intern answers. I have a book for you, I’ll say. Many Twitter followers. It’s about you sucking my dick, based on a true story.
delicioustacos 
Hey whatever happened to the girl off the Internet whose body was like advertised? You know, the one who looking at her naked body was like seeing the face of God? Did she ghost you or something?
What’s up with the left side of her face thing? The other side doesn’t look any different to me.