I have to finish this fucker off. How will I go about doing that? Well, by drinking of course!

          I have these grand illusions. Grand grand illusions this will legitimize me somehow. I'll get this in print and into my hands someday. But what's it all mean? 11 people at best will hold it within the next 3 years. 8 of them i'll know. 7 of which it will hurt. The other may understand. the other 3 I won't know and they won't make it this far so who the fuck cares. It's odd. As this has become a reality. I've now INVESTED in this. $100 so far on artwork. I hope you think it's good. Fuck, I just remembered I'm gonna be obligated to give this thing to a few people for free. The cover artist, a few friends. Trick question, I have none. No, only 2. Everyone else is an acquaintance. I might've written about it, I might not have. 

                I haven't even begun editing yet. Or neurotically going through each chapter to figure out if it's worth a shit or not. I'm drunk right now. It's the only way sometimes. I loathe finishing. I can start anything. Finishing I cannot. Hence why this is how it is. It's all mish/mashed. MISH MASHED DAMMIT. These are entries and short stories from the previous few years I decided it'd be cheap enough to fucking go and print up. But labelled right, it could suffice as a paperback. Do you like it? Is it big? I don't know yet. I hope it looks okay. Shit, I don't want it to look like the only other one I've seen recently. it's bland, short and it's fucking disgusting. I commend him though. Poor guy. It's terribly small. (It's from Maryland, not yours dear boy, which by the way I still have somewhere.) It's actually very sad.

               If you're reading this, you either skipped to the end or you read the whole damn thing! Congratulations! By god you've done it. Was it long? Boring? Are you my mom? Hi mum! Shit, this is like the flipped dedication section. It's at the end. Hi sis! Hi Friend(s)! Hi reader! Yes you! Hello unsuspecting reader. Welcome. Well, goodbye really. 

                         In truth, I am only proud of my short stories, which there are few. But as filler, my rants and bleedings as filler aren't very good, but decent enough to fill a few pages of a few books. I don't have to print many so I won't be killing too many trees. I hope it's thick. I'll seem legit. HA! Trick of the light. This free Science Labs thermos I love. It's filled with Rum. 

    I am currently debating whether I should fill this book out with some shorter poem/ rant type things I've written. Help me decide? I should really milk it and keep this as it is untouched and put out another shorter one as my second. Don't you think? But with everything I do, I tell myself it'll be my last, and it has to be good. So I put it ALL out. Everything I have and then some. Give them their bang for their buck. So half of my mind tells me I should really proof and edit and go through and nix the weak chapters, and replace with some catchy cool shorter bits I have which I haven't looked over yet. But the other half says no, this is rock and roll. Bleed. Bleed for them. Bleed for it all. Bleed for yourself and no one else. Put it all out. For better or worse. For you. 

               But also for those who may read who right now, I can't care about. For my family. For my friends. For my future/potential spouses. For my potential children. (sorry, but this is me) For strangers. For my lovers, wives, girlfriends, flings, and those who are burning this for warmth. (and to them, may it serve you actual good) To anyone I may have to answer to, well, welcome to my head. I'm not sorry for that bit because it's me and right now it's all I've got despite how it may seem. I may dress and drive and carry myself okay, but I am not okay. But shit, I wrote a book so I must be something right? Wrong, I had no idea until last month I'd write it and I didn't really even write it AS a book. This has all been me bleeding for no one and I decided it'd be another release for me to mush it all together into a stream of shite on consecutive (wow I spelled that on the first try) pieces of paper which you are reading now to give myself a sense of relief, which I do not get even still. Am I breaking the 4th wall for you enough?

           I drink to this. I drink because of this. I drink because I realize once this is a reality, it might be too much for some to bear. I put it all out there. If you are one of the few people reading this who knows me, then you will know every time I chose not to take part in a situation, I probably retreat to my room. This is what I was doing. Instead of exploding. Instead of screaming. Instead of crying. Instead of throwing a fit. Instead of throwing an object. Instead of throwing a person. Instead of smashing my hands against walls or things or people. Instead of calling the police. Instead of having a heart attack. I wrote. I wrote about you. I wrote about me. I wrote about me and you and all of it. Everything. 

          I wrote about my take of the situation. Babies, girlfriends, friends, family, the fucked and unfucked and real fucked and the things in my head I made up as fucked and the things that were fucked and got unfucked and the things that were never fucked I believed were fucked. I admit responsibility. Don't let this change anything. As if I had the power to through print, HA! I'm listening to Bobby Charles right now. He's magical. God bless him. 

                  I had a birthday last week. 26. I don't know what 26 means.

               Don't take any shit from anybody.

                                                                            But don't give any to anyone either.