A Satisfying Intercourse or a Wasted Wank Job?
Dedicated to: To you, a friend, philosopher and guide! It is just a routine beginning. The most atypical characteristic of all the aspiring writers or should I say pseudo-writers, you know, those hipster-types, wannabe-intellectual types. Every single story has to begin with a seemingly frustrated rant, and unless it does so, no one will take you seriously. But one thing that guys like us need to make sure is that the rant sounds like an existential one, filled with self-deprecating innuendoes, and slightly sexual, perverse overtones. That’s one thing that writers like Dostoevsky taught all of us. Yeah, yeah, I know. There’s one more reference to the great Fyodor. We can’t do without it, you see. After all, we all suffer from the ambition of wanting to be acknowledged, of wanting to be heard, regardless of what crap, inconsequential, monumentally pathetic, senseless crap we say, we want to be herd. Oops, is that a typo? I am not sure. But who cares? So, yeah, where was I? Oh ...