There’s not much to who I am.
An assortment of ****** memories and ******* decisions pretty much cumulates the bulk of it.
There are few chapters left in my book, if any at all, and it’s finest kind because my ink well is running dry.
I figured it out. No bible, no koran, no holy scripture. It was pretty easy actually. It all came down to “just don’t be a ****”. Somehow there are people who have managed to become incredibly wealthy by stretching that philosophy out over hundreds of pages and thousands of years.
I made sure to secure any permanent ties. No kids, no wife, no friends or family. I think I’ve always known I was only writing a short story. So it sub consciously never made sense to establish any ties. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying. I endeavored nonetheless. Human nature I suppose.
Mine was never good story. More along the lines of The Catcher in the Rye meets an early eighties Hustler meets a refrigerator magnet that reads Worcester.
I found it frustrating. Perpetually confusing and more than once I’ve wanted it to be over.
A good writer would be able to continue along this line of thinking and perhaps mold it into something meaningful.
I’m not a good writer.