It’s not a club.

This weekend was our first meeting of the Writing Salon. That’s right, you sons-of-bitches; I’m the member of a goddamn salon. Your pathetic little lives mean nothing to me, you hear me? Nothing! And if you call it a club, I swear to God I’m going to totally write a really harsh haiku about you.

I’ve come to the determination that I hate working. I think that I deserve to win the lottery (aka gambling for people bad at math); if I DO win, I solemnly vow to do absolutely nothing but write in this blog and, every now and then, go to a LARP. I’m going to get so fat I get out of breath from eating. And I’m not going to be cool and donate to charities. Oh hell no. I’m going to totally lord my wealth over the less fortunate, thereby solidifying my power and prestige.

Fuck it, it works for Cheney, and he’s not even ALIVE. Speaking of – how do you think they’re going to get Cheney be Bush’s VP in 2004? Do you think they’ll put marionette strings on him, or do you think they’ll just replace him with a robot? Actually, given the way this administration is going, I think they’ll just prop his decaying corpse in the corner and call anyone who says he’s dead “unpatriotic.”

You should email me and get in on my good graces now. When I’m rich, you can be goddamn sure I’m going to remember the people who were mean to me.

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