Dear Bedtime

Had a dream last night you were spanking me with a hairbrush. I asked if this counts as cheating on my boyfriend and you said no. I said: “keep the jeans on, that way it doesn’t count as cheating”.

Silly boyfriends. They should worry less about me getting into their girlfriends’ pants, and worry more about me getting into their girlfriends’ heads.

My dick has never once taken a woman from another man. But those things I whisper in her ear when he’s not around, the way I make her feel like a scared little girl who just can’t help herself…? That shit will absolutely ruin her for him.

Girls are programmed to overlook, excuse, and forget bad dick. Bad thoughts, on the other hand? They hold on to those forever.

Which is my way of saying, I don’t think a little denim is going to preserve your virtue. Given that you’re writing me, I suspect you’re running a quart or two low as it is.

it seems like you’re phoning it in a bit lately.

“Phoning it in” suggests a lack of effort. This isn’t that.

No one wants to hear a grown man –particularly this one– drone on about his personal miseries and travails, and since misery and travail seem to be my default states at this point, I try to spare you all the spectacle. So I experiment, and riff, and try to think of ways to make something I give a shit about.

In short: you’re getting what I’ve got. Fuck off if it’s not good enough.

Your blog is pathetic and its obvious who you’re copying your ideas from. You’ll never compare to him 😂

I’m copying ideas? From “him”? Oh, thank god! You have no clue how relieved I am to hear that. Please forward the following note on my behalf.

Dear Dude From Whom My Ideas Spring:

What’s your deal, you lazy motherfucker? I haven’t written shit in months, and assumed that was my fault; I figured depression had finally wrecked what passed for my creative process. But now I know it’s you; you’re not giving me any goddamned ideas!

I oughta kick your ass, you lackluster fucking hack. How dare you get me hooked on your exciting notions and scintillating turns of phrase, only to withhold them like a bitch trying to score a new tennis bracelet? You, sir, are an asshole.