Fuck me. I have no idea. Look, this whole column is about following me, as a small press author, trying to make it. That was the idea. It was going to be funny and insightful, or some shit.

Whatever. Right now I have a collection to finish writing, a short story I promised someone, another collection to work on, and some NDA'd projects in the works.

I have a novel to edit, another to map out, three scripts to scene out. I have to interview someone. I have all this shit to do.

But do you know what I did this morning? I wrote songs. Not, like, real singable songs. No, I wrote funny songs to make some friends laugh.

So whatever -- I just pissed away all sympathy. So, this month I don't want to talk about how I'm too busy too cope, or all about how I am swamped and getting buried under a pile of work that still isn't paying enough.

Instead I want to talk about something else entirely.

Testicles.

Why are they on the outside like that? Why are they so fucking sensitive? I mean come on!

Not only do I have to watch out for sports injuries, umbrellas, and babies with powerful tiny fists -- no, I have a cat. I have a cat that likes to knead whatever the cat sits on. Sometimes the cat curls up when I'm blissfully asleep between my knees.

Sometimes she stretches and is happy and decides to knead while stretched out to the limit. You see where this is going.

So yeah, fuck the normal thrust of this column. I'm sick of waking up to the edge of a claw in my balls. Fuck off. You try dealing with it.

Hmmm, my editor [Ed. Note -- This isn't really his Editor; Adam lies.] tells me I should refocus on the real point of this column. [Ed. Note -- No, I didn't because this isn't your editor...]

Well, fine then, Editor-Man! FINE! [Ed. Note -- But I'm not... *sigh* Never mind, asshole, do what you will.] I'll do this up right! I'll fucking pitch one for the team! I'll score a touchdown in the other zone and freak out the goalie! I'll get a three pointer with nothing but net with a 9-iron! I'll do some other sports thing with a sports thing!

I'll...

I'm tired.

I feel weak. Maybe I have the consumption. *cough* I might, you know. I feel very weak. Too weak to go on, perhaps. *coughcough* It's a sad, cold, cruel world. *cough* Goodbye evil... *cough*

[Ed. Note -- This is, of course, not the Editor. Hell this is... I don't know. Some disembodied voice of the ages. The Ghost of Columns Past maybe? Whatever. The thing is this: That bastard just left his own column. Skipped right out the back, faked having consumption and went for a beer. Where does that leave me, I ask you? Nowhere, that's where. I can't use paragraph breaks even. Not in an Editor's Note. So fuck me running, now I have to explain this all to you and somehow make everything seem very no--... Oh, he's back.]

I'll tap back in, there, Editor-Man. [Ed. Note -- Still not the Editor.]

Oh. Well, I got my Editor a beer while I was out. I mean while I had consumption. But if you aren't the Editor... [Ed. Note -- No, no! Wait -- I edit THE WORLD! Gimme the beer.]

So where was I?

I think I was talking about childhood. You see, when I was a young kid I wanted two things: To drink scotch and write. Even then I knew the two were related. With my ulcer I can't drink scotch now, but that might be why I write. I've lost one dream; I can't lose two.

I... naw, fuck it. I'll be back next month for real. Until then -- keep warm, don't shit on otters, and stop peeing in the sink.