Have Heart, Little Hunter S. Thompson

HunterS.Thompson(Above: Who wouldn’t want to be like HST?)

I know who you are, and I know what you’re trying to do.

From an outward glance, you’re just the guy handing me my ice cream cone at my local Culver’s. But behind your indie, black-rimmed glasses (that you don’t need for a prescription, mind you) is an author waiting to happen.

You’re screaming inside, “Where’s my motha-fucking Stephen King zen?” or something about The Tommyknockers.

I know how it is for you, too. Racing through old photo books, websites, and friend’s facebooks just to gather ideas in the hope that, once collected, these hundreds of different ideas could form together to create (wait for it) a fucking book.

It’s like, when you’re at your computer typing away, you know, the really dramatic typing-as if you’re using a type-writer-but you’re totally not.

Your hands are pecking faster than Lindsay Lohan (fuck rumors, man) can throw back non-alcoholic shots of vodka that’s totally alcoholic-I’m sorry…

I’ve lost you. Shit, I didn’t mean for this to happen. Here I am, loaning my advice to you, dear scholar, and I’m ranting. Let’s try this again.

There you are, doing your damndest to get the creative juices flowing, trying to mold your novel in the screen before you, when your younger brother and his dick-less friend come into the room, chiming in with Family Guy quotes, ruining your intuition.

Your brother takes on the form of Brian, the dog, who is actually supposed to be you, while the shit-dick friend of his (who you’ve beaten up-and will again) is playing Stewie, using that high-pitched squeely voice, asking “when that novel will be done“. You know, the one you’ve been working on…and so on.

Well, in one way or another, I feel your pain.

Because as difficult as it is to read your poetry in front of class, or tell that girl you have a crush on she makes your dick hard-nothing is as difficult as putting your heart and soul into a book, and having nothing come out of it.

Except getting the shit kicked out of you outside of a McDonald’s at three in the morning.

Yeah, that’s much worse.

If that (or either) happens to be the case, just pop some pills, wash it back with some whiskey, and take the next boat to across the lake.

Which boat, you say? That boat.

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