Without being asked, you bloodied another stack of paper. There lies a lovely crimson currency that won’t even pay your bus fare to the liquor store. There’ll come a time when you pull a green eyeshade down around your brow, in the kitchen, under the range hood. You once told me you don’t write for anyone but we know that’s crap. You write for the sleepyhead getting out of bed in the dark of morning before school. He’s the one still wiping sand from his eye while treading the cold floor toward the bathroom, erection poking through the flap in his pyjamas as mother comes down the hall with her hand to her mouth, stifling a burst of laughter.
You’re not waiting down at the whinging wharf of public opinion again, are you? Wait if you must but the skipper had all the boilermen he needed. The ship has sailed. You’d have more success eating molecules with chopsticks, as Stoker said, or shovelling mercury with a pitchfork, as that other guy said. Can’t remember his name just now.
Would something like: ‘This is the vilest piece of shit to ever be pushed out the backside of a literary four-flusher’ satisfy your infantile need for recognition? Oh, you sad, sad sack… Is that your dick sticking out through the flap again?
There’s no better way to end a life sentence than with a bullet lodged in the range hood and although that may have been true for Thompson, it’s not true for you. Finish urinating and go back to your warm bed where you can continue dreaming your little dream while mother tells father about your inheritance. Perhaps you’ll wake to sanity in a straightjacket. Perhaps not. Nobody cares either way, sleepyhead.