In the last few days, I have worried that, in the end when I was done blowing shit up and talking philosophy, that I wouldn’t have, you know, Something To Say. That I would end up being a Shakespearean idiot and just be making my hour of sound and fury. Not that Something To Say is a requisite, but in the end, I like to leave the building with a little nugget for those who survive the trip to chew on. A parting gift. And so, in the blistering agony of the brain drain, caffeine overload and sleeplessness that has been the last week, I have been wrestling with articulating why I was putting everyone (my darling characters as well, none of which fare very well) through this monstrous ringer.
93,731 words later, I got the nugget. You wanna know? You wanna know the last two words of the book? Come on, you know you’re dying to know.
Peace out, chilluns. I’m printing this fucker and mailing it.
Tomorrow, maybe Tuesday even, I’ll start worrying about my viral beer story for The Boyz. It’s sort of a pain in the ass that my agents actually demand performance. Aren’t they supposed to be doting on me? Fuckers. I got your damn beer story right here, pal. I hope you drop the 500 pages I’m sending you on your foot.
[insert Internet-stylee emoticon signifying nothing but peace and love for those who watch out for me. It’s a tough love between men that we share.]
I’m off to wake the small dude and take him to the toy store. Since there won’t be any heavy drinking in the next few hours, there will, at least, be gratuitous shopping for wee toys for wee dudes. Someone’s got to benefit from the endorphin high I’m on.