Diary: Taking a Shit Reading Karl Ove Knausgaard

19 Dec
Karl Ove Knausgard

Michael McDonald

I’m posting old unpublished material to draw page views for my new book Finally, Some Good News. There is no point to this now. If you were gonna buy it you’ve bought it. If you’re not gonna buy it, fucking suck my dick. Seriously I hope you get hit by a truck–


Not feeling like writing that story this morning. Took a shit reading Karl Ove Knausgaard. I want to write long streams of consciousness punctuated by Milan Kundera style philosophical sentences. Life goes by faster and faster because the meaning is drained from it. But all I can think about is pussy.

Have to get out of LA. I need a city of layabouts. Go where people have no ambition. Where the rent is cheap or God forbid you can buy a house in cash. I guess anywhere else in the fucking country. Anywhere but New York LA San Francisco. Montana or Texas or fucking Alabama would do it. Maine. I need a traditional life. I need an (REDACTED) year old girl to marry me and have my babies; she lives in a separate shack and take care of the fucking things. I can’t accept one more iota of responsibility.

Why do I start most days with this awful creeping feeling. Had a nightmare last night. The devil was coming for me. I woke up and the wind was knocking things around. I got twisted in the blanket, rolled over and over with the sheets over my head, getting cocooned. I still think if Satan breaks in a blanket will protect me. Can’t sleep with the wind and then the cat meowing, agitated to get out. His claws on the hollow bedroom door like a tympani. The bathroom fan loud enough to shatter all thought in the day but not loud enough at night to drown out a twig rustling. When I sleep I pray to God: strike me deaf like you, fuckstick.


Just keep doing it. If it’s good they’ll discover you after you’re dead. Focus on action not results. Thinking about writing, the enemy of writing. Talk to a girl about sex and you’ll never get pussy.

But you need long unbroken silences. Long unbroken periods of no work and before you write you have to get out your urge to socialize. Fly 18 hours each way to the jungle and fuck illiterate young whores. Or get on Tinder; semiliterate old whores. Needs must be sated. Plus fifteen and a half of sixteen waking hours are working or preparing for work. All day every day except a half hour after your long shit long shower eat granola make coffee smoke a cigarette dig through the laundry basket for an appropriate pair of socks… you have a half hour when you still have some mental energy, and maybe something will come. What drives me nuts is thinking about the socialist utopian future. Some other version of me has 19 hours a day to write. He cranks out 40 novels and is swimming in (REDACTED) year old girls. Moses never sees the promised land.

I’ll tell you, even though I want you to fail: never work. Never. Don’t give up your dream. Your girl will leave you anyway. The people who tell you do your homework do your job pay taxes, et cetera– they just want to steal from you. The rich people they look up to are lying cheating criminals.

If you need money, leech it from the government. No one in other countries works or pays taxes. They’re all happier than you. Move somewhere cheap and write or make your stupid folk songs or whatever. Make your dumb paintings and get enough pussy to be touched once a month. To have relief. I should have been more mentally ill. Enough to get disability. I need a living from the victim complex. Can’t live while employed. Anyone who tells you work hard needs to get shot.

2 Responses to “Diary: Taking a Shit Reading Karl Ove Knausgaard”

  1. Ben December 19, 2018 at 4:57 pm #

    Are you still counting pussies?

  2. GenericDave December 21, 2018 at 8:41 pm #

    I’m buying a copy tonight. Its the least I can do. Not to kiss ass but….you’ll never know how much enjoyment your writing has given me. I’m a few years older than you and everything you write really resonates with me.

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