Mama, don’t let your kids grow up and become a writer.

Did you really think it was going to be that easy?”

“For a second there, I really did. “

“Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids.”

Today I am pissed. One of my friends just got his book published. I would like to be happy for him but secretly I want to bash his head in. I guess I will go to his book signing, smile, buy the damn book, sneakily ask for his agent or publisher phone number. That’s what other writers do, we prey on each other. What’s so fucking special about being published anyway. I know I am running out of time with this pipe dream of being a writer. My party boy days are defiantly over. I can’t even do a tequila shot without taking antacids. I decided to finish my MBA.

I think my family took it harder when I told them on my thirtieth birthday that I want to be a writer, maybe a comedian, more than when I told them I was gay back in elementary school. I guess then they thought it was just a phase, the gay thing. Grandpa said if I prayed hard enough Jesus would take it away. I asked him did that work for him. He didn’t speak to me for a year.
At least with being gay I could pray it away. Being a writer, that shit is for life. It’s like a psychological disease, the need to type these words. My psychologist told me I suffered from a Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I told him I didn’t ask for his opinion, he was getting paid to listen and not critique. Besides, who needs another critics.

In the hood, ghetto, hard knocks, there is a saying, “So you want to be a gangster.” Originally recorded by the grammatically incorrect niggardly gangster rapper “Too Short” and it glamorized the dangerous life of pimps and hoes, drive-bys, beat downs, drug dealing, driving nice cars and partying in big houses, I guess living the true artist life. It’s kind of like becoming a serious writer. It’s the glamour of irresponsibility, sexy dingy hotels, lingering addictions that lead to being on Oprah and then shunned for lying about how much of a drug addict you were, creative differences I guess. Aren’t all memoirs just a bunch of bullshit? If one is going to recount their life wouldn’t it just be a bunch of lies. The truth is boring. I try to recount what I ate last week and conveniently forget the three o’clock in the morning David Hasselhoff drunk burger incident.

When I said I wanted to be a writer what I meant was I wanted to get paid. I figured I starved enough as a child growing up in Santa Rosa projects, I had no desire to do it as an adult. I was too black to be a starving artist. I wanted to be a hustler. I wanted to sell my books on the street corners like a hooker circling her block in four inch heels, booty shorts and push up bra in six degree Chicago weather. A bitch got to make her money. And it ain’t easy for hoes these days. I think that song won an Oscar.

When I said I wanted to be a serious writer I meant I wanted to be known to more than just some college professors who smiled and gave me a “B” because my check hadn’t cashed. I wanted to be more than my current lover telling me he loves my writing but never read my book instead I keep him up late at night reading whatever I suddenly thought was brilliant as he fall asleep like I did in art history class. I can’t be that boring. I, of course throw my book at him, he apologizes, tells me he had a hard day with his real job and needs to get up in three hours to work to pay for my hobby. Yes, my dream is a fucking hobby. Nobody cares. They smile at you and tell you that you are great but when you ask for money they say get a real job. They smile at you and tell you are brilliant but secretly wait until you give the insanity up. I wanted to be more than a writer to just my friends. I wanted to be more than a writer to just the liquor store guy who I try to convince is the reason I’m the first at his store at ten in the morning. He never turns my money away. He shakes his head like yea nigga right.

When I got laid off work, I said I would take my unemployment checks and finish that damn novel I’ve been working on for the last ten years. Yes, ten fucking years. I wrote it to completion but it sucked. Funny, you spend so much time on a book and when you’re done, it’s like what the fuck, I wouldn’t even read that crap.

Now, I say I want to be a serious writer, it means I want to get published. I guess liked. I actually want to be worshiped. I want the suave life of an accomplished writer: book signings, lectures, tricking people into thinking that I might be smart. I want to get my cherry popped. I want some lusting agent to tell me I’m the next big thing as he or she slides my literary panties off and fuck me until I owe them money.

Yes, my name is Michael and I am a writer. I know it sounds stupid. I even laugh at myself when I say it out loud like saying hi my name is Michael and I am a werewolf. People don’t believe it until the mood turns full, I change and they start screaming like bitches. I told you so.

Lazy Cheap FAt Drunken Bastard