I don't know how it feels to be proud, nothing for me amounts to that. I often find myself forced to change submissions because i am too this or too that or something may be offended. Same goes for my stand up class. I'm too shock factor, too honest and holy shit you can't say that out loud. What about poor Mildred with the game leg in her sleeve?

My first publication of 2022 bound beautifully with my pictures and words, two copies for mirth i suppose. Here in my handnothing seems to be clicking. Whatever i imagine. It'll come again around and i shan't feel a thing then either. Tis a funny world that molds you for something only to leave you caring for the fruition very little. Acting be damned, comedy suck an egg and the writing? Why i may as well give it up if cussing isn't promptly abandoned. For it has its place. It stays with me. 

My printed words are mediocre, censored if you will, because the real work sits unread, unpublished by my typewriter, my desk or under the communal couch. I wonder if the day shall come when i too can be accepted --for being the broken headed, utterly melancholy son of a bitch that i am. It's not just for laughs that i am here. I am here to die with the rest of you. 

While i am glad that i have something published, and in such a beautiful medium, to me that art of print is merely a bitter sweet parallel. A lie because it is not me that is being printed it is the butter soaked candy of what i thought in a fleeting moment that you see. Not the iceberg that broke the boat. Bukowski said if you're writing for publication -- don't bother. Thank goodness i'm not or i shall have packed my bags long ago. 

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