The Fuck Would I Say What For?

Impasse living Solutions, Ltd.

So one day (okay, over the course of a few weeks) I have a terrible breakup, weep like a schoolgirl with a skinned knee, drink a barrel of whiskey, watch Death Proof three times and end up writing a ‘zine that now totals 60,000+ words over four issues (the fourth one is coming, I swear) about living in Heaven with Rosario Dawson as a sort of reverse fuck you to the woman who broke my heart. The ‘zine sells a couple hundred copies out of one store in Chicago, which is like platinum status in the DIY print world. They are serialized by a legitimate magazine. Richard Hell, one of the best musicians ever and a true icon, even buys them via PayPal for some inexplicable but awesome reason, and I am happy. This all occurs over the course of 18 months.

In the interim I have a kneejerk reaction to someone name dropping ‘Bobby DeNiro’ like they’re fucking BFFs and go shopping together all the time and start making fun of said person on Twitter by writing 140 character fake conversations with celebrities that all adhere to the formula “So me and ______ are ______,” followed by two lines. When I realize I have done this over 100 times I make another ‘zine that collects them, bracketing the conversations in short fiction that is insipid and borderline retarded, revolving around Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen and a slew of celebrities I either adore or abhor, pitted in some monumental power struggle with yours truly as some sort of focal point, which has slowly evolved into a treatsie on American taste. This ‘zine sells well, but I move to Seattle and there’s nowhere to sell them here, so whatever.

I put both of these fine things on the Amazon Kindle store so people in other states can still read them, even though I hate the internet. Nobody buys them. Che sera sera.

Meanwhile, I start a Tumblr to collect all my scattered pictures of animals talking in all capital letters from the seven abandoned Tumblrs I no longer use (I tend to start a new one either when a relationship ends, so my ex can’t read about my boring life, or when I reach 100 followers because I feel an obligation to be on the internet when that many people read what I write and I don’t like spending that much time on the internet. I like being outside). This was three weeks ago, the Animals Talking In All Caps thing.

In three weeks, with no promotion other than a link on Twitter and one on my Google+ page (wooo! circles! 30 people in my circles! woooo!) that fucking thing has 140 followers (and counting) who absolutely love it, making it by far the most successful of my retarded endeavors.

I WRITE LENGTHY PROSE PIECES, GOD DAMN IT. I SPEND DAYS, ENTIRE DAYS, PROOFREADING AND FORMATTING AND PRINTING MY WORK. I AM PROUD OF WHAT I WRITE (most of the time) AND NOBODY NOTICES.

But make a tumblr with a cow talking about infidelity or a praying mantis arguing with a cat and it’s bright lights, big city shit.

Why, America?

Why, internet?

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love making animals talk in all caps, but god damn. It’s like making great art films for a living and then having your embarrassing softcore porn comedy outsell them all.