I been stage four since Thursday, that's damn near a stage a week, just thought you needed an update. The wife is half-way healthy, diabetes, some woman trouble, but she'll be in charge of my publishing empire, soon as the pain exceeds the will to type and to produce new authors. Winnie is editor in chief, no matter what happens. She got her nursing degree, so there's a good chance Brass Plane Enterprises will be able to help you get ahead of the writing game before you smoke your trillionth Camel straight, and get cancer.
I've said a hundred times already. Why are you people screwing yourselves down to this mainstream publishing model that produces nothing but trash for the New York Times to review, because they're weasels with no mind for true art? They all have 'people' in the industry. It's a cartel, and they are determined to keep people smug, stupid, and in need drugs like Prozac or skag. One drug to keep your job in a tall building, the other to keep you settled after they kick you out. Show me a Prozac dealer who doesn't deal a little smack on the side.
P. D. Reeters does not use drugs. You shouldn't either, but that's your business. My business is helping people beat the bullshit, before it's too late. Grains of sand keep whizzing down the thin walled glottis on some fucking hour glass, some fucking where or other. Just look what we've all been through.
You did it, I did, so did the man on the moon. Tried to make a few bucks on the side while you're sweating to sell an opus. Sure, you got a fat bottomed best-seller, all good to go, and you're hearing back from douche bags. "We are not publishing this type of material this season." Sure. They need all the ink and paper they got for guys who are 'in season,' like a grapefruit. There's a lot of scams to get rooked at.
So the commercial goes, any fool can sell pencils and coffee mugs off a website, sitting in the living room, in an ergonomic chair, with stomach cascading over their balls, the terry cloth bathrobe half open. Here comes the wife with nice cup of coffee for the entrepreneur. The software informs him (and you), in a soothing ghetto-chic electro-feminine voice, "You have some guy who wants shit," each time someone clicks on one of your banners. Ever notice how, on the commercial, the wife is suspiciously attractive, and the new business owner looks like a dude who couldn't get laid if he had blow in hooker hell? I'm trying to save people from that kind of thing. You need a publisher. Before you go all sucker-bait for another internet marketing racket.
and...a poetry reading by the author:
I've said a hundred times already. Why are you people screwing yourselves down to this mainstream publishing model that produces nothing but trash for the New York Times to review, because they're weasels with no mind for true art? They all have 'people' in the industry. It's a cartel, and they are determined to keep people smug, stupid, and in need drugs like Prozac or skag. One drug to keep your job in a tall building, the other to keep you settled after they kick you out. Show me a Prozac dealer who doesn't deal a little smack on the side.
P. D. Reeters does not use drugs. You shouldn't either, but that's your business. My business is helping people beat the bullshit, before it's too late. Grains of sand keep whizzing down the thin walled glottis on some fucking hour glass, some fucking where or other. Just look what we've all been through.
You did it, I did, so did the man on the moon. Tried to make a few bucks on the side while you're sweating to sell an opus. Sure, you got a fat bottomed best-seller, all good to go, and you're hearing back from douche bags. "We are not publishing this type of material this season." Sure. They need all the ink and paper they got for guys who are 'in season,' like a grapefruit. There's a lot of scams to get rooked at.
So the commercial goes, any fool can sell pencils and coffee mugs off a website, sitting in the living room, in an ergonomic chair, with stomach cascading over their balls, the terry cloth bathrobe half open. Here comes the wife with nice cup of coffee for the entrepreneur. The software informs him (and you), in a soothing ghetto-chic electro-feminine voice, "You have some guy who wants shit," each time someone clicks on one of your banners. Ever notice how, on the commercial, the wife is suspiciously attractive, and the new business owner looks like a dude who couldn't get laid if he had blow in hooker hell? I'm trying to save people from that kind of thing. You need a publisher. Before you go all sucker-bait for another internet marketing racket.
and...a poetry reading by the author:
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