I miss you, Aubz. I hate saying it but I do. I miss the way you would laugh at one of your own jokes then croon about a girl who dumped you in the third grade then hold me as you told us where you started from again. I want to tell you that never gets old.
Writers are now either Ivy League Iowa Workshop heels or self-promoting mushroom-taking, internet addicts who write about a pretend drug problem so they can write about something other than using their parent’s money to live.
I am prone to get turned down for less than what, and I am dying.
Which is the endgame for anyone with Twitter, that they would do well enough outside of it that they would never need to use it again.
I wish I knew more about balancing equations or gold mining or betting on horses. But my specialty is solipsistic blog posts, and I’m afraid it will always be.
I was once taken to see the baby chicks. They moved like a blanket of fluff. They sounded like a million yellow phones all getting text alerts at once.
Hire me and I’ll start following all of you on Twitter. And when I come to New York we’ll have a drink and laugh and share many inside jokes.
26. You miss out on meeting a variety of failed artists, mostly male writers.
And I guess that’s depressing, but watching football on TV is better than watching it live so I don’t know why it has to be so different for traveling. I know it’s different, except, as Chuck Klosterman would say, when it isn’t.
But that probably won’t happen, or it will, who knows, life is a bunch of risks!