Again, I was going to finally do the interview with Jake Svercek, but I have yet to ask him any questions.  I have been having a hard time writing lately.  I feel like I am sitting in a therapy room and I should say, “Hello, my name is H. and I am a bullshit artist.”

Or, “Hello, my name is H. and I am an asshole.”

Or, “Hello, it was me that killed your cat.”

I decided to try some of those ‘writing exercises’ you can find online by Googling (or Yahoo-ing for all of you people who want miscellaneous crap on your search page) ‘writing exercises.’  This proved to be the stupidest thing I have ever done.  If you ever want to write a lot of stuff about your ’sorrowful broken heart,’ or EROTCISM or ‘I want to jump off a bridge like a teenager with a mild to severe steriod problem,’ then do a writing exercise.  I don’t like writing exercises.  Instead, this is what I suggest:

Read a motherfuckin’ book.

In this case, I chose to read I AM GOING TO CLONE MYSELF THEN KILL THE CLONE AND EAT IT by Sam Pink.

I shall allow you the glory of an excerpt:

LET’S TAKE A BATH TOGETHER

Hold my hand.  Let’s take a bath together.  I don’t mind if it’s cold in the bathtub.  And I don’t mind being crowded.  When you are not looking, I will open my mouth by your head to see if it would fit inside.  If you notice, I will say, “I must be tired” and then under my breath I will add, “of not biting biting your head.”  I will put bubbles in the bath and throw a handful of them in the air.  I will say, “Yay, it is snowing.”  You will say, “Don’t lie to me.”  I will respond, “But it is so much fun.”  I will wash you with a bar of soap made of soft skeletons but I will not tell you.  If I told you, you’d probably just leave.  I will run the bar over your body and wish I was the bar because after touching your body, the bar doesn’t have to say a word.  I will watch the dirt go down the drain.  “I’m out of towels,” I will say.  “I think I have some downstairs.  Let’s go check.”  While we are checking, I will push you into the oven.  I will dry you in the oven.  And you press your hands and face against the glass.  Let’s take a bath together because when I take a bath by myself I am afraid I will drown.

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I feel a little more relevant now.  I feel like writing something, perhaps getting this something made into a neon bar sign and hanging it in front of your house.  Perhaps I never met you, but I just watch you as you walk your dog on Monday evenings and I wear dark glasses and a low hat.  Perhaps I would like to say, “hello,” but I suspect you would think I am imaginary.  I feel like writing something and smoking a cigar on the back patio and you are in the basement.  I feel like writing a love poem now.  Do you?

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I think we all should buy that book.  OK.  I can’t stand it when people say they never read poetry or fiction because it would “affect their own work.”  This makes me very angry.   This usually means you are a thirteen year old with bad skin who masturbates too often to photographs of the young Susan Sarandon.  Usually, these people write terrible diatribes about their “crimson blood” and their mommy sex fantasies.  Go to Hell.  Read a book.  Read any sort of book (unless of course, it has to do with adolescent vampires discovering love for the first time, lawyers solving the same old case over and over, or mysteries with the word “cat” in the title.)  Reading books helps you write much better.  And let’s be honest, you write like shit.

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If anyone has anything to say that is amazing and/or has to do with erectile dysfunction, please e-mail me or let me know in other, more interesting ways.

Love,

H.