I hate having nothing to do. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it so much. I’m between books right now, waiting for editing, and I wish I had a GIF or some kind of horrible picture, something to illustrate the depths of my loathing.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a book to read or a game to play, anything at all, but I haven’t.
I tried sleeping, but my dreams were a mess. I went on a plane where the seats were all toilets. The flight was a long one, and I knew sooner or later…oh….
I painted a man with a chain between his nipples. He kept asking for repaints, little tweaks to suit his ego. He wasn’t bad-looking, but we didn’t have sex. I never have sex dreams. What’s up with that?
I wrote a book on mathematical models for economic trends, only to discover the publisher wasn’t a publisher, and I’d just done someone’s doctoral thesis. I woke up and turned on the TV, fell back asleep, and did the same thesis again.
I couldn’t sleep after that, so I went on Amazon and read four- and five-star reviews of other people’s books, and pretended they were mine. Then I found more books and did the same again, only with one-star reviews. I fretted because everyone’s reviews are more thoughtful than mine. Why don’t I get whole essays on how much I suck? Even my good ones…they never say what I want them to say. No-one’s ever all, there was this one paragraph on page twelve where he was on about his childhood, and I just about died. I grew up on that same street. I mean, not literally, but you know when something takes you back so hard you smell asphalt, taste bubblegum, and you look down and expect to see Keds? I looked down and expected to see Keds.
Other folks get those. Lots of folks. Everyone. No fair. Sniff. Whine.
Anyway, I finished doing that, and I made myself a cup of soup. You have to wait to eat those, two minutes while the noodles go soft. I spent those two minutes rotating the cup left and right, watching the liquid stay in place. It’s sort of trippy, I guess…the cup moves…the noodles just hang there…. Like suspended animation, man.
I read about James Frey’s book factory while I drank my soup, which tasted like fried chicken and lachrymal fluid. It was meant to be garden tomato. I think they assign arbitrary flavours to things, like a placebo effect. It’s a cup of salt and food dye, but hey. Garden tomato. Isn’t that better?
James Frey’s book factory also seems to be a cup of salt and food dye. They tempt you with royalties, then reserve the right to tell everyone your name. Your real name. Any time they want.
I want royalties.
Maybe I’ll change my name. Or buy one on the dark web. You can do that, right, buy a new you? I could get a new bank account, pay two sets of taxes, pretend I’m my own roommate. No-one would know.
Then again, two sets of taxes, that’d be every year. I want royalties, but not extra work. Or, I do want extra work, but only the interesting sort. Not the sort where Revenue Canada calls me and puts me on hold for an hour because I paid taxes on last year’s tax rebate, and I wasn’t supposed to, and I should care why?
I did another stupid tax thing this year. I paid my property tax to the federal government, but when I realised what I’d done, I was too lazy to tell anyone. I just sent the same amount to the correct recipient. Nobody’s called about that. Maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll keep it.
It’s only my third day off, and I’m thinking of taxes.
I’m like a five-year-old pulling on Mother’s sleeve—what can I do?
She’d say “clean your room,” but my housekeeper does that. And I don’t have a piano, so I can’t go and practice. I don’t have a bike or a dog to walk. It’s too dark for the park. Jesus, Mother, you’re useless. What can I do?
I think I’ll go on Twitter and look for drama. There’s that thing with the Romance Writers of America—I think that’s still happening. And someone’s always said something embarrassing. I could say something embarrassing.
GIVE ME A NEW BOOK TO WRITE!