Ulrik, the backstabbing bastard. After all that I’ve done for him… he comes logging on, says goodbye, and then just keeps doing his thing, in plain sight, behind my back, elsewhere and everywhere.
He’s shit, and the thought of him makes me sick. I’ve got children on the way, and I don’t want people seeing me like how I see him, the dinky douche. All of us have got our place upon the landscape of literature; let’s keep him in the toilet and me in the mirror. It’s how it’s got to be. I’ll admit that I see my puking face in the pool of his work occasionally, but mostly it’s just ass.
I’ve got to leave it alone. I’m sorry, bro. My nerves are on edge. I’m tearing myself apart. My phone is fried. A spark just flew through the headphones and exploded in my brain. I’ve no idea what time it is. The Salt Flats are out there though. I can feel them. They are calling out to me. I need to get back there. Only there can I yell out the deepest recesses of my brain. There’s no touching me out there. Nobody is going to call me a misogynist. Nobody is going to call me anything because there won’t be anybody around. I don’t need anybody. I’ve got myself and my family. Another member coming soon. Attach another ball and chain to my traipsing corpse. How can you kill that which is already dead? The more weight that you clip on, the deeper that I sink. My team of editors, up on the surface, might as well be the constellation of my birthright. A twitchy eye. A hemroid ass. A fried phone. And a dead computer. Story of my life. Go on. Please. Already. Like I said, I don’t need you anymore. I never have.