The following will serve as a warning to you, the reader. It is a note sent to my brother prefacing a short story I had written. This post should be kept in mind if you decide to continue reading this blog.
Hey there mister,
I couldn’t decide whether to begin my Quicksilver trilogy or my epic space opera, so instead I chose to excrete the offal that you will find below. The main reason I began writing it was in order to hear my writing spoken by the Kindle. Damn if it doesn’t sound just like a work by a famous author! Either I have to make a recording of it, or you have to get you some Kindle action going on, or you have to find a Kindled spirit and trick them into uploading it onto their device and then beat them into turning on the text-to-speech so you both may share in the agony that is my writing. Hearing my writing is actually one of the best motivators that I’ve ever had. In fact, I’m rather surprised that the Kindle emitted no sparks! Neither did it deign to release its factory smoke charge. It’s a fucking miracle of modern technology that my monitor didn’t implode after the first sentence, though it had every right to. Who knows, if my technology continues to accept this drivel without crapping its buffers, then I’ll keep writing like a ferret on crystal meth. Let me know what you think. I’m pretty damned glad there’s 700 miles separating us because there’s nothing worse that a literary critic demonstrating his disgust by hurling a Molotov cocktail from a speeding vehicle to drive home the point that I have diverged from the well worn path of Joyce and Frost. Somebody told me that I should take a writing class. I told him that he should consider taking a shutting-the-hell-up class and that he could reasonably expect to graduate as the valedictorian. Actually, I told him that I already know how to write, as well as read, although not at the same time but I can switch off rather quickly.
The story is set in the future in a place that will become evident once you have read just a small portion, although I would truly appreciate it if you would continue reading, possibly to the end of the as yet unfinished story. I have taken the liberty of including a PDF of the same inane ramblings should you decide to share it with somebody in need of an intensely dysphoric experience. Please feel free to strip my name from the file and to tell the victim that you found this tract in a recycle bin or compost pile. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any shame or humiliation that almost certainly would be directed against you in light of being related to the author (I use that term very loosely…). Seriously though, I had to wrap six or seven layers of duct tape around my bulbous torso to keep from splitting my sides so you may want to consider taking such prophylactic measures before reading. Perhaps a strip over the eyes wouldn’t hurt either. Please be sure to use plenty of Neosporin on your eyes after you’ve stabbed them with pencils, you wouldn’t want an infection.