There is no better joke than the truth. I have been thinking, I am not sure whether too much or too little but I have been thinking. Thinking of every tiny detail of what to write for my first ever novel because it is perhaps the most critical piece of work that any writer would write. Thus it is the biggest hurdle between a writer and a common man. You see, everyone can write don’t believe these fucking literature scholars who tries to bring you down with their fancy intellectual gimmicks. If you have a story worth telling then you can be a writer and everyone has a story that they think worth reading about. The problem is that most of these fuckers who manage to publish their books just so happen to be the most useless and annoying piece of shit anyone ever read. So why then do I think so much on what to write, I mean if some bitch could write a love triangle story between a dog, a bat and a dumb emo freak then I am pretty sure whatever crap that I write should be able to sell. I think too much of what to write because well the first book will be like a first single of a band. Every rock band loves playing all genre of music from the black man’s blues to the trippy psychedelic rock but unlike a rock band who could easily change their style from one album to the next, a writer’s first book sets the tone and persona of his entire career. I mean of course they can change their style but just image JK Rowling suddenly wants to write a crime/mystery novel about nymphomaniac witches who curse male victim for their sexual pleasures. I mean I would read it but history would always remember her for that boy wizard. Your first book is always the scariest to write for another reason, if you are anything like me then you would have tons of ideas that just pouring out of your skull and never ever did I manage to stick to one single plot for too long before I find some hardcore porn website with old Mrs. Claus getting gangbang by a swarm of horny elf midgets. It is just impossible in this day and age with the vast internet for any young writer to focus, too much distractions of huge tits everywhere.
But I guess I would do my best to stray away from the pornographic contents just long enough to tell you about my story. Or perhaps I could just hire that prostitute I met on the way home to suck my dick as I write you this, sounds like a good plan. Excuse me while I dial for her. …. Now as stated I wish to write you a story and I am in good condition to do so, I have a 18 years old (or at least she said she was legal) Chinese prostitute named Cherry giving me a god awful blowjob underneath my desk while I smoke this joint of marijuana and drinking this vodka straight out of the bottle, plus a few tab of that homemade LSD got me just in the right condition to tell you this story. For awhile now I have been thinking of the tone to tell this tale, maybe in the style of Douglas Adams or Monty Pythons I thought after all it is quite a randomly humorous tale or perhaps the style of Phillip K Dick dark futuristic with idiotic society that is pretty much true in this setting, or maybe a fantastic mythical fairytale of JRR Tolkien’s magical creatures like how I encounter in this adventure or even in the style of conventional melancholic life changing novel like Edgar Allen Poe. But again I have too much information that I would have to convey in order for you to truly understand the story perhaps I could write like Aldous Huxley if it is at all possible. Nah I can’t do any of these style, they just don’t feel quite right for this story. Then it hit me, like literally hit me in the head.
Cherry bit the head of my penis in an accidental fellatio mishap. She saw me writing this shit on my laptop and she couldnt help but to comment on my action. Thus her eagerness to help me out with this caused my dick a bite mark. She stated that she was studying the works of Hunter S. Thompson and figured that I could try to tell my story in his persona. I kissed her on the forehead for being such a smart hooker and push her lips back to my sore cock. That is it. I shall tell you this story in the spirit of the Gonzo with a mixture of Python’s randomness of Tolkien’s fantasy and a dash of Dick’s electronic nightmares and if at all possible I will suppress the emo side of me like how they kick Poe down in the gutters. I found the perfect way to tell this shit then but the question is where do I start? I don’t want to plan or structure anything anymore, I kept procrastinating due to this but today I shall just let it all out. Fuck this acid starting to take its effect.
This homemade acid isn’t that bad for a novice like me. I mean I did double the dosage prescribe in the recipe of LSD but heck if I’m going to trip on my own shit then I better trip it all out. You want to know how hard it was to make your own acid, especially in the bitch fuck country I’m in? For the Lysergic Acid, I need a whole load of Morning Glory or other suitable plants but since the rest are none native to these lands it had to be the pretty vine flowers. Unfortunately to buy these god-damned seeds are fucking impossible for common public. I had to go all over the city to just find a few fucking packets of small amounts of seeds in a country that tries to promote gardening and green revolution. Fucking hypocrite motherfuckers. I wanted to plant flowers that are completely native in this land but yet I had to spend a fortune to just get the seeds. But of course my sweet charm of silent bargaining manages to breakdown the gardener and I bought a whole bag load of morning glory. Now the extraction process is slightly complicated but manageable with the stolen chemistry sets I managed to sneak out of high school few years back. After the pure acid was extracted from the mixture and the peyote ready to mix out of my San Pedro Cactus, we gave it a proper blend and added a few of drop the strongest mescaline found and dried that cocktail of death for my personal consumption. It is called the Gonzo Cocktail.
Oh my fucking Gods of the Bloody Heavens…what the fuck is this Chinese bitch doing to my dick? Is she giving me a blowjob or is her mouth my expensive cock holder? I see five years old girls giving a better blowjob with a lollipop that this slut. Too bad her boobs are too small for titty fucking. That has always been my favorite finishing position. It’s clean and safe, best way to cum after an hour long humping the fuck out of any vagina or anus, all over that perky bosom and her face. If only I had the time to fuck this whore right now, fuck I am fucking horny.
I slapped the bitch in the face and forced the vodka down her throat before thrusting back my penis into her lips. She stared at me in fear. Yes. That is how it is done. Fear me and fucking hate me. Loath me all you want as long you make me cum all over that pretty face of yours.
Oh…what have I become? I wasn’t always a bastard like this, I was a very good boy or so that was how I perceived myself.
I looked outside the window as the wind shakes the tree under the moonlight night. A sudden flash of lights from the passing cars blinds me in illuminating visions of the past, present and future.
The Drugs have gotten hold of me…I was gone…
There is a place called the edge, it is the tip of human consciousness the border line between sane and insane, it is the tiny difference from reality and illusion from truth and dreams. Those who has gone over the edge never returned to tell the tale, maybe this time it would be different. I am so close to the crumbling edge that I could almost taste the sea of lunacy and freedom. Maybe if I am lucky I could swim down there forever and if at all possible I will try to record the fall from the edge. I could hear it now, the voice of Jim Morrison singing, “This is the strangest Life I have ever known, Waiting for you to come along, Waiting for you to hear my song, Waiting for Sun…”