I wrote a novel. I never did anything with it. Why didn’t I do anything with it?

It looks like this:

Today, while sitting at my desks imagining ways in which I could hopefully die soon, I set what you might call a hard deadline for publishing this son of a bitch. It has to go out no later than January 2018. It frickin has to. My life is a disaster, my brain is permanently broken, my soul is doomed, and I’m an inch away from being chewing up in the cruel machinery of EXISTENCE . . . but so help me God, this sweet little baby is getting published, even if it ends up being a sort of epitaph to be scrawled on my mile-high tombstone!

This novel, which is called INJURY AND AFTERMATH, and which is probably not any good, is about some jerkoff loser named Rayon Starpuncher as he rides out the final days inside the big weird dumb twisted haunted amusement park called PLANET EARTH. There is a phantom whose name I won’t reveal!! and who moves between time and space, and so on, watching Starpuncher’s day-to-day life and visiting him in dark dreams to whisper things about the coming end times, and other dumb stuff too.

Man! It’s a cool thing maybe. But then what do I know.

OK! Y’all should get in on this thing when I toss it out into the world . . . but only if you want to!