Fiction, bitch.
[One of the beautiful things about having had a few previous online incarnations is that, when your current incarnation is too disaffected or otherwise excused from having a coherence of thought, you can cannibalize those earlier selves and appear to be providing content. This might mean that said content is either timeless, or just as stale now as it was when you first wrote it; but since I haven't set any respectable bar of quality, I can sleep well enough. Originally “published” 07/11/03.]
If you’re like me, or can pretend to be so for the duration of this post, you know how difficult it can be to find someone of discerning taste and willing disposition to read the crap you write. Specifically, I’ve got (mostly unfinished-but-very-close-to-being-finished) short stories I’d just love to lay on some folks who’d tell me how utterly brilliant I am for having written them; but finding those folks is, as they say, um, like, difficult, or whatever.
Enter the Fiction Bitch. I don’t care if she’s a he, doesn’t wear pants in a socially responsible manner, and sells drugs to hillbillies—any job title with “bitch” in it just effen rocks.
I love the omelet thread, but must we contend with the syphilis? Perhaps if everything else weren’t so chaotic, it’d be credible, but here it screams “clichéd plot device,” as does the whole prostitute angle.
Omelets, syphilis, and prostitutes. Omelets. Fucking brilliant. And that’s why we need her.
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