“Our vodka will murder your kidneys!”
“That’s not blood in the toilet––it’s ribbons of FUN.”
“It made WHAT spatter from your (eyes, ears, nose, genitalia)? Give me four fingers of THAT, kind Japanese hostess!”
“Drink this and end the night crawling through a pool of your own filth!”
And that old saw:
“Of course it’s free, Brenda–it’s Medicare!”
As I’m writing this post we had a small earthquake here in California. The entire building rocked back and forth. Imagine a Big Baby thirty feet tall who’s grabbed your tar-and-gravel roof in both sweaty paws and now is trying to shake you out of the building like the last Skittle in the bag. Or, that rocking could have simply been someone in white shaking the foot of my bed. I NEED to finish this post MOTHER (he’s not my mother).
Perhaps the Final Five are using this earthquake to communicate through time and spaaaaaaace. Must I completely remove the words “tween,” “pustule,” and “Charles Nelson Reilly” from my book? I must. Message received and understood! (“tween” isn’t a word anyway, stupid Final Five)
If you want to know how to write, I haven’t got a clue. You should understand by now this isn’t that kind of place, just like you should understand that a business with a name like “Cheetah’s” is not for children. Probably your first step should be to stop reading drivel like this and slam your fingers on the keys until you produce the newest, hottest, burningest flash fiction. Tweet that magic to all your friends and watch the fascists squirm in their high heels. Or “post to the door of your room” and watch the “football jocks” laugh in your face, as we used to say in my village.
I will say this about writing––it needs massive amounts of
drugs Diet Pepsi. Yes, because I’m fat.