#264

So, couple days before I wrote the last post I sent Factually Pointless vol. I off to print. So disgruntled and tired was I that the critical wherewithal to mention it was fully lacking, even up to this moment. And what does it matter? Not one particle of a fuck, dear reader. Nil.

Anyway if you're one of those people that loves to pay for what they can have for free (barring footnotes, which does add that wonderful metatextuality that some readers [me] crave), click this here shit. It's not on my author page yet. Hope that happens soon? Publishing through a megacorporation that doesn't give a cold damn in winter about what you write (at least, I haven't run into any problems, and I use plenty of cuss words and wacky notions) grants a beautiful and heady freedom, but with freedom comes a near-total relinquishing of control that is the comfortable provender of traditional publishers. How could I ever possibly be empowered to make them do jack-all? I don't know, and I happen not to give a hot damn in summer, either. It's all just fucking words. Literal sex words, over as they happen. Here today, gone tomorrow. 

Fucking and writing: two things ostensibly done for the sake of posterity, of ennobling and significant continuity, but in actuality just done on the white-hot wire of the moment for the pure animal deep kick.

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Poof. Vanished! 

--JL