Your Opinion Doesn’t Mean Shit to Me.

Being a writer means a lot of things; being a published writer means even more. It’s one thing to actually write the fucker; it’s quite another getting anybody else to damn well read it. And I should know, because I’ve written 30,000 words for you people already, and what’s the thanks I get? Cartfuls of hate mail? Death threats? Angry letters from your attorneys demanding the removal of offensive material? No. Which pretty much means that nobody is listening, doesn’t it. I mean, all Jeremy Clarkson has to do is malign Norfolk or the new Volvo and he gets thousands upon thousands of letters, and meanwhile, here I am, using the words “cunt” and “spazzwank” and “clitwart” with joyous abandon, and what is the thanks I get? One measly comment decrying my lack of good taste and sensitivity. Almighty Sekhmet, people. This truly is a third-world country; I want first-world hate mail, for fuck’s sake. Ungrateful bastards; I don’t know why I bother.

Actually, that’s a lie. (But then I lie a lot. Mostly in bed, writing this junk – but I’m lying about that, too.) I know exactly why I bother.

Spreading the internet love…

So as part of my ongoing campaign to get every single person on earth to read my blog, I’ve joined the nice people over at Technorati for to be promoting my writing and shit. So here goes… Check out my profile, while you’re at it: Technorati Profile

Insulting critics

Okay, so apparently engaging in a flame-war is both tacky and uncool, but I just can’t help myself. At least this time I’m restricting myself to a blog, where I can swear to my heart’s content. Ah, freedom of speech – isn’t it a wonderful thing? Well, no apparently not when you give it to morons.

I’ve said this before, but I hate stupid people. They piss me off. When someone has never had an original thought in their entire lives, and yet insists on blathering on and on with their stupid opinions, I have a difficult time not engaging with them. Perhaps, despite all my cynicism, I compulsively believe that people are reasonable beings and capable of rational thought, so that it should be possible to talk someone out of their horrendous ignorance and get them to see the light. Alas, my cynicism generally proves better-founded than this rather persistent, misplaced faith in rationality.

The Eastern Cape, or Why It’s a Bad Idea.

You can’t stop here! This is …

Hmmm, okay. So what should I write about then? Any ideas? No? Anybody? Hmmm. Not surprising, really. None of you fuckers can even get the energy up to post a comment on any of my stories, so it’s hardly astonishing that you don’t have any suggestions for what I should write about. Bah. At least I have an excuse. That’s correct, I’ve spent an entire long weekend – from Thursday afternoon to the early hours of Sunday morning – in the Eastern Cape. Not to mention the 10+ hours drive either way, in a car, with Pikes.

Wanna go for a ride?
To be honest, I haven’t had much time to catch my breath. Fuck, I haven’t even read Pinvictor’s last post. (Although now that I glance at it, I wonder who he’s referring to with that crack about “ill informed rants”. But then I read his poetry, and decide it’s better not to ask. Or mention it at all, in fact.) But okay, so for future reference: if you ever think of driving to the Eastern Cape from either Cape Town or Johannesburg: don’t. There’s a reason that God invented airplanes, and that reason is “avoiding exasperatingly boring, haemorrhoid-inducing 10-hour car journeys”.