I might be fat, but you’re an asshole.
I can lose weight, but you’ll always be full of shit and hot air.
I might be fat, but you’re an asshole.
I can lose weight, but you’ll always be full of shit and hot air.
I often wonder what it would be like if we all got along. What would our world be like if our differences didn’t affect our perceptions of one another? I often wonder what it would be like if we all looked the same, acted the same, were the same. What if we saw ourselves in our neighbors, our friends, our family? I often consider the possibilities if our worst traits were erased from our genetic codes. What if there was no envy, no pride, no wrath… nothing to drive us to harm one another? No one knows, but I often imagine a world without violence, a time of peace that would see us all better off.
This post should have been longer, but I’m wrapping up a new novel this evening. PORT IN A STORM, my first foray into science fiction with new author, Linton Bowers, tackles the same questions I’ve asked above. The novel is drawing to a close, and I remain bereft of answers. Hopefully, we’ve managed to write something both entertaining and meaningful, but we’ll have to wait and see.
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Below you will find a list of questions I have either skirted in interviews, in person, in emails, or in comments. There comes a time when answers should be given.
Are you gay?
Nope, but I have fabulous hair.
Are you straight?
Nope, I’m round.
Are you an introvert?
Nope, I’m a closeted extrovert.
Are you a pessimist?
Nope, I’m a cynical optimist.
Are you really as fat as you look in your pictures?
Nope, I’m allergic to bees and am being perpetually stung off camera.
Is DASTARDLY BASTARD a play on words?
Nope, it’s a book with words.
Is LIFE AFTER DANE an autobiography?
Nope, I am not currently a fifty-five year old woman, but anything can change with time and surgery.
Is your wife really black?
Nope, she’s more of a caramel hue.
Do you support gun ownership?
Nope, but I support your right to defend yourself.
Do you support abortion?
Nope, but what a woman does with her own body is none of my business.
Do you do drugs?
Nope, but I have in the past.
Do you drink?
Nope, but you can revert to my answer of the previous question.
Do you smoke?
Nope, but this one time, in high school, some douchepickle lit my ponytail on fire.
Are you a violent man?
Nope, but I understand there’s a time and place for everything.
Do you think you’re a good writer?
Nope, I’m a storyteller because writing is hard.
Are you scared of the dark?
Nope, I’m scared of what hides in plain site.
Do you have any regrets?
Nope, because what’s done is done.
Are you stupid?
Nope, if ignorance is bliss I’m clinically depressed.
Are you fucking retarded?
Nope, I have no want or need to copulate with such an ugly word.
I’ve been an idiot. I thought I was fighting the good fight, attempting to make a difference, but I was wrong. Readers and reviewers have nothing to be concerned with. Neither do the authors you target. You see, I posted a warning to my author friends on my Facebook page telling them that they might want to distance themselves from me, lest your wrath runeth over onto them. I was set upon by a flurry of owls. “Who? Who? Who?” One such acquaintance even said, “I had to look them up.” Then, a friend of greater intelligence than myself responded to that acquaintance: “The fact that you had to look them up says enough.”
This got me thinking. Who exactly do you reach? The answer comes in two parts. Firstly, you’re known to the reviewers whom you’re so adamant about outing as bullies. These people already revile you, so I’m not proving anything to them by fighting with you. Secondly, you’re supported by the like-minded individuals who want reviewers silenced, unless of course they give your books glowing reviews. What does this all amount to? You’re nothing but a glorified circle jerk. You’re disgusting to the average passerby, and adored by each other. Yes, I’ve been a fool.
So I extend my sincerest, heartfelt apology, but you have to understand, I thought you mattered.
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The colloquialism “Mad as a hatter” stems from antiquated haberdashery materials. Mercury was once used in the production of felt, which was then used to make hats. The mercury would seep into the skin of those who worked with it on a regular bases, namely hat makers, and the haberdashers would slowly go mad. I’ve always loved Alice in Wonderland, with it’s adoration of madness. Edgar Allan Poe, Albert Einstein, and Vincent Van Gogh were all considered crazy in their times. Some suspect Poe’s madness was a result of opium and alcohol addiction, and that Van Gogh was driven insane by the lead in his paints, but what about Einstein? Well, that gentle soul with the Neil Gaiman hair was labeled mad because his theories were ahead of their time. But, does a diagnosis of madness detract from their accomplishments? Most definitely not. More modern descents into madness have been taken by Bill Nye, Michael Jackson, and Miley Cyrus. How did Miley end up in there, well, “Wrecking Ball” is a touching ballad about laying yourself bare to your partner. Unfortunately, some say the song is sullied by a music video wherein Cyrus tongues a sledge hammer and rides construction equipment while she’s in the buff. Yet, I can’t help but notice genius in action. After the music video for “Wrecking Ball” and the MTV Music Awards segment where Cyrus ground her ass into Robin Thicke, Cyrus’s sales skyrocketed, and her face was plastered everywhere you looked. Major news outlets covered her, religious persons spoke out against her, talk show hosts screamed “INTERVENTION NEEDED!” from their comfy couches, and, all the while, Miley Cyrus laughed as she skipped off to her nearest ATM. Marketing genius is no different from scientific proficiency or literary greatness. Yes, Michael Jackson dangled his baby from a balcony, but the guy also needed Propofol to sleep. I surmise that’s because he couldn’t shut off his brain. Because that is the one thing genius and madness has in common. A person inflicted with either is constantly rummaging through the storage banks of their mind, questioning and unearthing formerly unseen possibilities. The difference between madness and genius is proof. Proof of creation, proof of theorem, proof of existence. Many think Bill Nye is crazy for speaking out against religion, for publicly stating that religious beliefs affect education. After all, what’s there to learn if you’re dead set on the idea that some omnipotent being created everything with simple will. Isn’t more exciting to believe that all this was created by a perfect storm of variables? That Earth being just far enough from the sun to keep from destroying life yet close enough to promote it is amazing? That we somehow managed to evolve from one form to another, moving from eating bananas in the jungle to connecting with others through computers? Isn’t that far more wonderful a concept than some invisible man saying, “Let there be blah, blah, blah… “? Maybe I’m crazy, but that’s the way I see it. And, while I’m no genius by any stretch of the imagination, I do strive for madness. Care to join me?
A line was drawn in the sand today between friends. Everyone was split over their own beliefs. Everyone thought they were right, and in a way, they were. Yet neither side seemed to understand the other’s point. Should there be an apology? Yes. Should other details be ignored? No. Because of all this, there was loss. Loss of friendship, loss of temper, loss of respect. Loss, loss, losslossloss. But somebody won in the end. Because eyes are watching and mouths are smiling.
I’m being as obtuse as possible because name dropping is not required. Not one of us handled the situation properly, and for that I have a heavy heart, have had a heavy heart since the entire thing began. But I made a decision a few minutes ago. I no longer care about how I am perceived as an author. It’s just another label, a label that does not define, completely, who I am. I was a reader long before I wrote my first story, and I will still read long after I can no longer lift a pen or type on a keyboard. I will continue to review as I always have, and maintain an honest, discerning eye.
At the end of the day, none of this matters. Those that care will continue to care, and those that don’t won’t. It’s as simple as that. I’m the happy father of two beauty children and husband to a wonderful woman. These things are important, and that is all. If I lose friends and acquaintances online, so be it, because I know that, at anytime, I can walk away from this goddamn computer and enjoy even more time with my family. So, in all actuality, nothing has changed. To those that suffered a loss or several today, I hate that that happened to you. To those I argued with today, I hate that we fought. Shit happens. To everyone else, I hope you remain blissfully unaware of the shit-flinging contest that ensued, because all of us acted like a bunch of monkeys on display at your local zoo.
Oh, and to the people who threatened me today with a certain label, eat my ass, please and thank you. I say this not as an author, but as an opinionated motherfucker, just like you. See, you’re not the only ones who can throw expletives around. Shame on all of us, witch hunt or no witch hunt. And fuck me for stooping to your level.
Let this be public record: STGRB, I want you to come after me. I would like nothing more than for you to attempt to end my career. In fact, I’ve been waiting for you. I’m growing bored. I want to test the meddle of your throngs of sock-puppets and minions. I wish and hope and pray that you will follow through. I doubt you have the guts, though. So, bring down your hammer of “justice” upon wittle ol’ Edward Lorn. I’ve dealt with your kind my entire life, and if I have to face you on my own, believe that I will.
You are, the lot of you, entitled cowards bereft of conscious. You are the sickness plaguing the world, the GIMME GIMME CROWD. You fight with the very people who pay your bills, like a fast food cashier with a superiority complex. You’re no better than an eye-rolling teenager who hasn’t gotten there way. “Sob, sob, pout, pout, nobody loves me.”
So rock my socks. Give me what for! Destroy my reputation and kill my lowly career. You don’t have the balls or ovaries large enough, do you? The sorriest thing about this entire clusterfuck is that you’ve become the very word that you toss around so flippantly: Bullies. Well, pumpkins, I’ve been faced with my share of real bullies, face to face bullies, and if there’s one thing you all have in common, it’s this: When called on your nonsense, you run and hide, or you dig through the mud to find those that will stand behind you because you’re too weak-minded and timid to even breathe without someone there to hold your hand. Because, after all, you’re all simply overgrown children.
Or, in language you can understand: Eat a bag of dicks.
Sorry I don’t have a better post for today, but I spent the majority of my time being called a bully because I brought certain things to light. Sometimes knowing the truth can make you feel foolish, but I’d rather feel foolish than be someone’s fool.
Anywho, this quote sums up today nicely. See you guys on Monday!
“I have known a vast quantity of nonsense talked about bad men not looking you in the face. Don’t trust that conventional idea. Dishonesty will stare honesty out of countenance any day in the week, if there is anything to be got by it.”
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I’ve bent over backward trying to find a topic today, but I feel as if I’m barking up the wrong tree. Racing against the clock, I finally found a post I don’t want to eighty-six. I know you’re foaming at the mouth, but bear with me while I get down to brass tacks. I’m working the graveyard shift on multiple projects and not one of them are close to being in the bag. I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Sometimes I want to pass the buck, I do, but it makes me sick as a dog when I consider finding a scapegoat for my problems. Am I wagging the dog? Perhaps. Without a doubt, I’m on the fence. Alas, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, so I’ve buckled down to get myself off the hook. Off the record, I’m on pins and needles over here. Make no bones about it, I’m not playing with a full deck. So, before I get too long in the tooth, I shall level the playing field. If idle hands are the devil’s playthings, it would serve you well to remember that it takes two to tango. If it’s not one thing, it’s another, right?