Anyways, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I feel like we’re developing a pretty good relationship. I don’t feel like I’m something so much that you have to read as I am something that you look forward to. I could be totally wrong about that. But I look forward to this. It’s a personal moment between us. There aren’t any ads on my end. I’d like to take them away from you as well. It’s something that I’ll do if the company becomes profitable enough. I’m professional. I invest in my company. It means a lot to me. There are certain expenses that must be met. I’ve got to keep a roof over my head, and I’ve got to keep my family fed, but if we can get those overhead expenses taken care of then, yeah, I’ll take away the ads. It’s the least I can do. There’s more that I could do, like print more books, but my goal right now is to get others to do that for me. I’m just saying that it’s something that I could do. I’d sure like to sign some of them. I don’t think I’ve ever practiced the bibles signature. Who wants to be the first? Step right up. Not all at once. No, I’m just kidding, but seriously. I’d definitely do it.
I’d live with you if you wanted. I’d be the writer in residency. Moving from place to place, exhausting the admiration of my fans, one after another, like a vampire. A boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do. At least until the apartments turn to houses turn to campuses or towns or wherever people do professional residencies at.
I’m about to be the writer at my parents’ residency. Living in the basement. A wife, a dog, and their chickens. They’ll go to church on Sunday and I’ll stay home because I don’t have any nice white shirts and my dad is quite a bit thicker than I am. Oh how the ward would love to see me though! Such a world traveler have I become! They will all ask for a copy of my book. I’ll be the biggest celebrity they’ve ever known. They’re not the type to let me live at their place with them though. They are not true fans or friends. They just want to touch me, a strange attraction. The prodigal son returned. Former seminary president. Holder of the priesthood. Sinner. An unholy marriage is what we’ve got. Probably going to need another baptism. Double triple dunk. Lots of talks with the bishop. Another masturbation conversation. I’m going to have to get remarried. What I’ve got here, it’s unofficial. My parents are definitely going to hold it against me even if they won’t admit it even to themselves. The basement will reek of our fornication. As soon as we can get an apartment of our own won’t be soon enough. They’ve got Jesus on the walls. They’re a celestial family. I’m a lost boy.
Anyways, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m still in New York. Who knows how things are going to go? I shouldn’t be doing too much predicting. The future’s going to come and it’s going to come soon. This month is almost halfway done. I’ve got eight more days at my job. Not so many if you count my weekends. All the same, it’s all those hours. Just let ‘em go. Let them pass through me. There’s no stopping them, and there’s no speeding them up. There’s no slowing them down either. New York is going to slip into my past. Beautiful Brooklyn. It’s a well staged nightmare. I’m about to wake up in my old bed. My false wife at my side and the dog at my feet, like those artifacts carried across from the other side, reminding me that it was all real, that it really happened. I was there, at the heart of alt lit. The big apple. Only a subway ride away from the reading of our generation. The next Woodstock. Another Fitzgerald. Somebody shaking their congested heart into my hand. Deli stand bodegas and gyros on the corner. The Strand still standing. Sunflower Pipes. Trump Tower. Those retards staring at me from their window across the street. The wooden floors, the radiator, and the roaches. My goblin of a landlord. His thirteen month lease. Cash on hand. 1300 dollars a month. So many jews… Black people. Foreign languages. Central Park. Abundant cafes. Writers, writers, writers! Taxi and Uber. The Ocean. I never saw it. Oh well.