Book: Note the old goat

Watch was in good condition, buddy alarm clock, bless him, how many times have I stared at the dial at 7.30 hangover in the morning and asked myself: *** this job? *** THIS JOB! in short, the clock showed 4 PM.

I was sitting with my buddy named Elf, the Elf child was specific kirdyk, it's all cringed for years was lying on the bed and squeezed rubber balls, practiced, and when I finally got out of bed, that was in width as in length, a mountain of muscle, brutish laughter hopefuls writers, but he too much like Thomas Wolfe, and T. Wolfe (not counting Dreiser) - the worst writer in America, and I bashed the Elf's ear (something he pissed me off).

I hope this compilation will help you. If you intend to send me money please. You want to hate me but for God's sake. If I were a mighty village blacksmith, you would not dare me to slapnuts. But I'm just an aging guy with his ribald stories, writing for the rag, which, as I may skopytitsya tomorrow morning.

Sit with a beer and typing, say, Friday or Saturday, at least on Sunday - and on Wednesday, your writings are already around the city. I got letters from people who never read poetry - not mine, nor any other, - and "Notes" mastered. And how many people were bursting to my door in droves, damn it, and was explaining how to "notes of an old goat" they give birth. A tramp came and brought with him a Gypsy wife and I, we spent half the night drinking and talking, talking shit every. The operator with the long-distance telephone line sent me money that I leaned on beer and eat properly. I was dealing with a lunatic who called himself king Arthur, and lived on vine street in Hollywood. He wanted to help me to write my column. Came to me and doctor: "I read your column and think you'll be able to help you. Once I was a psychiatrist". Had to send it away.

Let's say you took the poems to be published; it is hoped that in two years, if not five, they will finally be printed, and then, with a probability of fifty-fifty, and did perish, or maybe a few lines, word for word, appears in the work of another very famous poet, and then you understand that the world is unfair. Of course, this is no fault of poetry itself. Just a lot of the assholes trying to publish and write.

After a while he ceased to look through the text. Just took my stuff, popped it on the shelf and said: "Accepted. How are you?" Now he even says "taken". I just handed him stuff and everything. It really stimulates my creativity. Just imagine yourself: absolute freedom - write everything in my mind. Yes, I had a great time, and sometimes it wasn't just a big joke, but that's the thing: week after week I felt stronger at my craft.

He left or it is not flooded, rather, he left and his sack - but with what a Bang - from the "Herald examiner" after he protested that they retouch the Christ child, his wee dick and testicles. And on the cover of the Christmas number. "And this isn't even my God, and them," told me John.

Since then, I've learned that the most beautiful women always choose the most disgusting assholes and obvious fakes. Or am I just jealous of them and my opinion biased?

Face - the first thing you lose when luck to you ass.