FUCK ALL Y'ALL

I do my best writing when I'm directly emailing people.
This blog is best used as an archive of previously written pieces.
So to all y'all who suggested I set up a blog:

GO FUCK YOURSELVES. AND DON'T ASK ME WHY I HAVEN'T UPDATED IT.

(Claiborne is excepted from this tirade).
Seriously. Don't say "oh I like to visit it once in awhile, when are you gonna update it again?"
I don't know when. And the reason for this is that it's hard, if not impossible, for me to write when I'm not writing for anyone except myself.
Every one of you that thought this was a good idea? It wasn't. Go get fucked, as Bingo Martin would say. Ever since setting this thing up, it's been impossible to finish anything I've been working on. I'm not like you faggy ass "writers" out there, I don't sit around at my precious little typewriter or my little fucking notebook saying "Hmmm, what interesting and deep things will I set down today? How will I get in touch my oh-so-deep-reactions to the world that sound suspiciously like they got ripped out of a Charles Bukowski novel from 30 fucking years ago?" Scroll down a few posts: you'll see the worst kind of forced ruminations and reminisces (stories page excepted). why? BECAUSE THAT SHIT WAS COPIED DIRECTLY FROM EMAILS I SHARED WITH PEOPLE IN THE PAST. "Filth"? Five years old at least, and cut and pasted from an Instant Messaging session a few months back that I happened to save. "What's New Pussycat" is relatively new, except for the half about Florida, which I've recounted dozens of times since 1991. And even reading that one in its present form is like listening to the lamest stand-up comedian in the world.
"Get some discipline, it's easier when you write all the time." FUCK YOU. I write for a living.
So again,

GET FUCKED.

(again, Claiborne's excepted from this one).
I'll keep you off my email list, which is where I do my real work. Check back here in another 6 months or so, I may have something that's worth reading. But for God's sake, don't ask me to update. There's no fucking point when my best stories come out flatter than a 12-year-old's chest.
And if you don't like hearing it, well perhaps you should stop visiting this little home-away-from-email you were so vociferous I should build. Sorry if your bright idea didn't pan out as expected.