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The so-so book

Spent my morning reading a sleazy, bad paperback novel someone sent in the mail a while back. I’ve forgotten who sent it, but thank you, whoever you are. Poorly written prose is reassuring, if you imagine you’re a writer.

Ate a family-size sack of Fritos, so I guess I’m a family.

Stuck some 3¢ stamps onto outgoing envelopes that already had 29¢ on them, because postal rates have gone up, and I should’ve gotten my letters in the mail more quickly. Also pondered the question, who was Paul Dudley White MD? He looks like a stern, humorless fellow, on these stamps.

Masturbated twice. Thank you, Carlotta.  

Big news — at a little past 1:00, a rare moment of inspiration slugged me in the belly, and I knew what I wanted to say to the AVA. It took me four hours to say it, but I’m proud to say it’s not awful.

That’s the yardstick I measure my writing by: It’s either awful (you’re reading it), or it’s not awful (try again tomorrow).

Glanced at my watch at 7:02, and for just the briefest moment I thought, hey, I‘m missing 60 Minutes. I don’t miss it, though. I just don’t see it any more. After all those years of addiction, it's surprising there were no withdrawal pangs when I gave the television away.

I do wish there was something good at the movies, though. Alas, no, so it's back to that so-so book someone sent.

From Pathetic Life #8
Sunday, January 8, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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