I can write about jizz on a Sunday and get fifty readers, but if I post wholesome Dad Stories on a weekday, I get nine.

It’s Saturday and I’m at work. This isn’t going to be the one that gets me over the top, so fuck it. I’m tired and I don’t get off until eight. I’m going to eat this big plate of fried food Gina delivered and read a book.

I don’t get paid for this, except in the brain (sometimes not even that), so forgive me if I sound a little sore when the dopamine doesn’t deliver.

This is already too long for a “fuck you.” I find it best to have an adversarial relationship with my readers. Stephen King once said, “Losers always whine about their best. Winners go home and fuck the prom queen.”

He also said, “Amateurs wait for inspiration. Real writers snort a bunch of coke and write for 18 hours while their family cowers in the next room.”

Here’s what I’ve learned from studying my metrics. You guys love politics unless it’s too long, meta, serious, or weird. You hate shop talk. You despise my family unless someone died or almost died, and you probably won’t click on an article unless there’s at least one photo attached.

You hate clicking anything whatsoever if you don’t have to, even though you share posts by David Avocado Wolfe, and archives? What archives? If you don’t see it the day it was posted, it never happened.

With all that in mind, my new approach should be political stories about death and cum. This is why journalists say, “If it bleeds, it leads.” This is the plot of Nightcrawler. Look in the mirror, folks. Jake wasn’t the bad guy. It’s you.

I just ate twenty gigantic fried shrimp, brought to me by slavery and capitalism, and I don’t care. You don’t either, really, so don’t pretend. I’m taking tomorrow off, and next week is going to be 100% straight-up hot ropy¹ loads, milky yolks blasting all over the page. It’s gonna be a fucking oyster farm up in here, all snail trails and cloudy chestnut sauce.

Goddammit. Now I only have twenty minutes left to read this book about how we’re all meat robots. Forget it. Leave me here in my greasy-phoned shrimp shame. Fifteen minutes. Fuck.

Pretend there’s a photo of my lunch here. The work wifi is fucking atrocious.

¹ I had “ropy” misspelled for over 24 hours, WHO GIVES A SHIT.