Pornokitsch

I can't believe it. After working so hard yesterday that I wasn't able to write a single word (word count: 0), my boss hauls me in today and tells me that I need to "show some commitment". Commitment? Commitment?! Who is she? My nagging fiancee? (girlfriend count: 0).

I'm committed alright. I'm committed to leaving this crappy job behind and MAKING IT AS A WRITER. Once I sell this book, I'm done with this shit. Push your own paper, bitchez, I'll be a freebird by December 2nd. (I've decided on a 48 hour auction format for the international rights.)

You know those lottery winners who still go to their old jobs every day? NOT. ME. Do you hear me, wage-slaves? When I'm living in my Soho loft, with ten dominatrix slave Leias feeding me peeled grapes & Mountain Dew, I'll take time out of my busy signing schedule to laugh at everyone in a necktie.

I know what the writer's life is like, and it is A-double-star sexy. None of this "getting up in the morning and having to accomplish something". I'll be sleeping in on my bed of (black silk) laurels and watching my billionty Facebook followers send me their organs, in the vain hope that I acknowledge them. I know how this game is played, and I'm a winner! 

Writers don't have to work - once they finish a book, they're set for life!