I know I talk a big game about being a fucking beatnik, but to be honest my favorite mind altering substance is that lovely cannabis. The list almost begins and ends there. Don’t get me wrong I will sip a beer or some cheap fucking vodka when I get the chance; fuck I’ll drink the bar dry if I get the chance. But when it comes to dealer’s choice, I always pick the high hand. The green hand. What can I say, I guess I got a green thumb.
I’m just sitting out on the fucking porch right now, looking at this novel I am working on, licking the zig zag paper oh so right while I pray that mother nature doesn’t fucking sneeze and blow it all away. This is the life I chose. It didn’t fall on me. I am not some lazy piece of shit trying to pedal crap and pretend it’s gold. This is my passion. I read Naked Lunch when high school teachers were telling me to read Wuthering Heights. Junkie sits on my night stand. Howl is in my backpack and I break it out almost every other day. The best minds of my generation aren’t embracing dope though, they’re counting the awards they got as kids for trying in gym class or coming in 7th place during the block party three-legged race.
There is nothing wrong with offering praise, but it’s like everyone in this new generation is trying to chop off the legs of people who are actually trying. Trying doesn’t look cool. Inheriting does. I mean, don’t get me wrong, millennials are one of the smartest generations in history, and I believe they are about to break the record for most college educated. But why are they so catty? I mean what the actual fuck. I don’t expect the college boys to be acting like the princesses of 1980s romantic comedies. There is no reason people should be looking at me like I’m John Bender because I smoke a little grass.
We are not the clothes we where. I am not “slumming it.” I am just being honest, and writing about what I fucking know! I mean fuck those college workshops that try and tell you the right and wrong way to write. Fuck ’em. Just fucking read and write. Do those two things and you’ll find your style.
Oh that’s another fucking pet peeve. When did everyone become a fucking writer? I am one to welcome writers into this inglorious fraternity, but if the last book you fucking read was the Canterbury Tales in 12th grade English, then get the fuck out.
This joint is almost ashed, and I need to get back to writing, because ya know it’s my work.