I’ve written four book-length fiction manuscripts over the course of my life. The first two are embarrassing but the last two are wonderful—wonderful dead babies hanging from my belt that only I can see and smell rotting away from indifference. I don’t understand the culture. I never have and never will. I’m too dumb and uncool for indie publishing and too smart for mainstream presses. I’m a tweener, and a white guy tweener at that. Why would the world want what I have to offer? All I have are the sentences and the rhythm and the language which are addictive little things I’m not lazy about in the slightest but I suppose publishing is a completely unrelated endeavor. The Venn Diagram is two circles, oppositely charged, never touching. Fuck the world. I love my babies, I wish you could, too.

I didn’t think this mix was turning into anything but boy-o are there some bangers here. The straight line was a lie. It really, was.