Till finally I decided to say, “Fuck this shit. I’m fucking done trying to even start this fucking nightmare train. This literary fuckfest can’t even get started, so I’m fucking done. Somebody else can write the fucking thing. In fact, now that I think about it, somebody probably has. Margret Atwood has written like, sixty thousand fucking books. One of those is probably the Great Canadian Novel. Why the fuck should I even bother? I’m done bothering. Fuck you and your talent Margret Atwood. Fuuuuuuck You.”
Cry self to sleep in whiskey tears.