How did I develop this insane obsession to write a fucking book. Maybe I will write a book about trying to write a book. How the hell do you do that.
So what the fuck am I even going to write about?
The fact I died for 15 minutes, in 1993 and took an incredible trip around the universe with a naked stripper angle, learning everything there is to know. I now have the power to heal and control the destiny of all mankind. What if I told you I met god and we had a long and interesting discussion on high price of real estate on the planet Zion and having sex with stripper angles. At first the talks where cool only to discover later it wasn’t god at all but the crazy voice inside my head fucking with me as he always does.
When you’re writing a book is it good practice to show you’re a great guy by thanking all the people in your life for helping you write it.
Why should I, no one really helped me, in fact most people are a hindrance too my creative efforts. Always telling me I’m wasting my time, you can’t read, write, or spell what the hell are you doing in this play ground, you don’t belong, writing belongs to nobles and intellectuals.
Well they don’t really say that out load, but I know they think it. I can read minds, remember I died.
If I could only get control of the moving of my lips when I’m thinking folks would be a bit more respectful. The looks I have gotten over the years.
What will you my book buyer look like? News for you, I know every single one of you. Do you want me to list all your names to prove it? I can if you want? But I have a bet to win and a deadline to meet.
I made a huge life or death bet with the crazy voice in side my head that I could write a book by Feb 15th. If I win the bastard leaves forever. If I lose it takes over my body.
Never thought it would be this hard. Even as I type the voice is fucking with me right now. “You got a small dick, let me fuck Debbie tonight give her what she’s longing for” How do you even have job, you’re a loser.
Trying to write this with that son of a bitch in my ears is making the walls of the universe squeeze against my rib cage from all the three dimensions, I can't inhale or exhale. My only escape is to finish the bottle as fast as I can and land in the fuzzy zone so I can start thinking and typing and get the fucker out of my head. My wife who loves me has rationed and almost cut off my supply line of brain food.
Before I take you on this incredible journey around the universe I feel you need to know a little about your story teller.