Too Lazy To Think Of A Witty Chapter Title
Alright. It’s my weekend. Time to be productive. Well, as productive as I can be sitting on my ass for hours on end and clickclacking away on my keyboard. I loaded up Google Docs, navigating to my newest foray into narrative failure. ’Alright,’ I told myself. ’This is just for fun. No need to worry overmuch about quality.’ I have no idea why I had just used italicized thoughts; I could have just as easily written the thought out in first person. I convinced myself that the literary awkwardness could be followed up with a sentence containing a semi-colon. Somewhere, a critic’s eyes had just flicked across said offending semi-colon and they were sent into paroxysms of fury before dying, a white foam frothing out of their twitching lips.
Yes, my children. So great is my grammatical incompetence that even glancing upon its twisted form can kill. Kind of like Death Note, only indiscriminate and lacking an interesting mechanism for the wholesale slaughter of people actually schooled in proper writing. I guess that made it more like The Ring, then. Read this passage, and seven seconds later, you will die! I’d have to look into crawling out of people’s computer screens and stealing their souls after they read some of the shit I put into words. Like the last two paragraphs.
By this point, the blank Google Docs™ document was giving me an accusatory glare, waiting for me to actually, you know, write something. I hovered my hands over the keyboard for a moment, before deciding that now would be a good time to grab another beer and a smoke. It had been at least five minutes since I had a smoke in my bathroom, the ventilation fan whirring angrily. I don’t smoke on my balcony in daylight anymore. There are bees out there. Fuckers terrify me more than anything. So much so that I break my lease agreement and smoke in my bathroom.
Time for another? I looked at the blinking cursor on the empty page. Yep, time for another smoke! My next chapter would still be here, waiting for me to write it when I came back. Just as soon as I checked my several bajillion notifications on some social networking sites. And hit up Reddit. And pointedly refrained from detailing my actions while browsing r/gonewild lest I have to go through the effort of changing this story’s tags from “Teen” to “Creepy Guy Engaging In Self-Administered Carnal Ministrations”.
They have a tag for that, right? I’m sure they do. If they don’t, they should. It applies to half the stuff I see pop up on most pony sites. Twilight/Rainbow Dash/Cadance/etc. has an itch they can’t scratch and blahblahblah sexytimes ensue!
Where was I? Oh, right. I needed a smoke. I pushed away from my desk and stood up, stretching a bit before taking a swig from my beer-
My apartment door exploded inward, peppering my tiny studio with wooden shrapnel, all of which conveniently avoided me because I’m the one writing this and splinters suck. What didn’t avoid me was the furious gaze of the looming figure standing in the ruined doorway of my humble hovel. I screamed like this.
A pair of black leather jackboots hammered into the floor as the figure trudged forward. My downstairs neighbors were gonna be pissed. I, meanwhile, did my best not to piss myself. A hand in a black leather glove shot forward, and a single finger jabbed me in my sternum harshly, pressing me back into my computer chair as I fought bravely against my bladder’s attempts to void itself into my pants.
“Boy,” the giant’s voice growled. “I know you didn’t just hyperlink something instead of describe it.”
I stammered something amazingly intelligent out. Or unintelligible. I was too busy gaping at the angry red pirate to really note the difference. He simply stared down at me, his characteristic leer deepening.
“When was the last time you saw Brandon Sanderson hyperlink a youtube video? Or Robert Jordan? Or Stephen King?” Captain Morgan asked, a dangerous tone in his voice. Well, more dangerous than usual, anyway. Despite his constant grin, it was hard to imagine him ever being in a good mood with that psychotic glare he’s always flashing about.
“B-but they couldn’t hyperlink because books don’t do that!” I protested weakly.
“Exactly. And yet you just did.” His grin darkened. “And how did my grin darken?” Fuck if I know, man. I was too busy regretting never purchasing a pack of Depends fifty years early. Maybe his eyebrows furrowed angrily, or his lips peeled back to emphasize his canines more? “Close enough. But there’s still the matter of you linking a YouTube video in my story!”
His story?
He swung my chair around and rested his hands on my shoulders, gripping them tightly. “Yes, my story. You don’t think this is about you, do you? Is your life really so interesting that people would want to read about you?” I answered with a resounding maybe. Which is to say, I let a frightened moan escape my lips before snapping my mouth shut. He was right, my life was pretty boring, but I liked the quietude. Although there was that one time I threw an old man out a window and watched him die. I’m hxcore like that, motherfuckers. So hxcore that I don’t even have to spell out ‘hardcore’. I’m edgy and dark, like all the best story characters are.
I was still really regretting not wearing adult diapers.
“You seem tense, Feng.” He clenched his gloved hands tighter on my shoulders. “Why are you so tense all the time?”
“Please don’t kill me,” I whispered with a shuddering breath.
“Kill you?” He burst out into a mad cackle. “You’re too useful to die. For now.”
“So you’re not gonna hurt me?” More voice tremors, fear seeping through my tone, yadayada, I was fucking terrified, I probably should stop reminding you all since you’re not stupid and you get it already. Well, most of you aren’t stupid. Statistically speaking, at least one person who’s reading this is doing so aloud, sounding out every syllable of every word with excruciating slowness, then looking back over their shoulder and beaming happily at their caretaker when they finally get a word right. Because they’re retarded. (Just thought I’d make that last bit clear for the retard, I’m sure the rest of you got the point.)
Captain Morgan waited for me to finish my vomitous diatribe about mentally deficient people before continuing the conversation in a way that was totally not awkwardly paced at all. “I promise I will do nothing to harm you. Ever, Feng.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll let the ponies do that for me.”
“Wha-” Twilight Sparkle interrupted me with a botched spell and I remembered that I was already in Equestria at the end of the last chapter, making all this noise about me being back in my apartment a bit disorienting. Because I’m an awesome writer and never have problems with continuity.
Right, botched spell.
* * * * *
Shortly after the five asterisks, I walked down a dirt road towards Sweet Apple Acres, wondering if I could shorten the length of line breaks instead of using asterisks. I had been too lazy to try.
200[/hr]
I tried. Apparently some bbcode is evil, and "[ hr ]200[/ hr]" doesn't work like it would on any self-respecting format that used BBcode. No, we have to write our stories with the simple, touched little brother of BBcode. Our BBcode is the Leonardo DiCaprio in What's Eating Gilbert Grape to sanely customizable mark-ups. Like plain HTML. Seriously, it wasn't that hard to use, so why all this BBcode nonsense?
Why am I talking about BBcode instead of how I magically know where Sweet Apple Acres is? I should probably rectify that.
"Sweet Apple Acres is that way, mate," a tinny voice said into my right ear. I looked over, and perched on my shoulder was a pixie-sized Sailor Jerry, pointing conveniently in the direction I was already walking. The sign of good writing is that a deus ex machina will always favor the Gary Stu well-developed, deep, interesting protagonist. Which I clearly was.
"So, why did I decide to make you smallish and Australian again?"
“Well, the small thing was mostly so you could make an unfunny joke about me dressed up like a Chinese gymnast,” he replied.
“It wasn’t unfunny.” I sulked.
“The Australian accent was just you being too lazy to actually describe my voice. You just assumed all your readers would think I sounded like Crocodile Dundee or Steve Irwin.”
That’s totally what most of you thought, don’t lie. At least until I described his voice as ‘tinny’ a few sentences back, anyway.
Whatever, with Jerryminy Cricket pointing the way, I was almost to Applejack’s farm. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be a goddamn xenophobe country hick like most of you fuckers write her, and would be willing to help.
“I could get them to like you, you know? All the bronies...” a hot breath whispered into my left ear. I flinched and twisted away from the voice, jostling Sailor Jerry from my shoulder. His pixie wings buzzed to life and he gave me an angry look, clearly annoyed that I reneged on my promise to start writing him bigger. Instead he was now Tinker Bell in a Popeye costume. Right, that whisper in my ear.
Lyra stood uncomfortably close to me, her bloodshot eyes pleading as they flicked between my face and my hands.
“It’s not hard, Feng,” she continued in a ragged voice. “Well, not yet, anyway.” I shuddered and backed away from the crazy snarl she probably thought was a smile. “You saw how many horrifying shipfics become popular. If they could make it, even your awful prose would have a chance. You just need to switch some things around on your story, maybe give a few lurid descriptions of my winking-”
A dirt bike fell onto her from above, crushing—and more importantly, silencing—the mint-colored unicorn. A pair of socked feet in sandals hit the ground behind her. Attached to those feet was some guy in khakis and a Red Bull polo shirt with a popped collar. His skin was orange from either an over-judicious application of spray tan, or a burgeoning case of jaundice. He wore two pairs of sunglasses, one over his eyes, the other pair propped on his forehead.
“Dude! Did you just see that gnarlicious stunt I just pulled?!” I was too busy immediately hating this guy and wondering if the question mark goes before or after the exclamation point in sentences like that to respond.
“Ah, Christ, not this idiot bogan,” Sailor Jerry muttered miserably.
“What’s your problem, brah!?” the Dudebro asked. “Everyone knows that Jager is the shit!” He summoned an empty beer can and slammed it into his skull, crushing it.
“If I write you bigger, can you kill it?” I whispered behind my hand to Sailor Jerry. He nodded solemnly. I immediately wrote him to be my size, and he was back to looking a bit like a gruff sailor instead of a pixie-sized member of the Village People. Wait, I used that joke last chapter, lemme think of a better one.
I didn’t think of a better one.
“So, like, what’s up an’ all? You two broskis lookin’ to party?!” He smashed another beer can on his forehead before tossing it behind him. Sailor Jerry winced, but a flicker of revelation alit in his eyes. (You all do know what a ‘flicker of revelation’ looks like, right? Good, I was afraid I’d have to tell you all that it just amounts to a knowing spark or some shit. Because eyes spark and shine like fireworks, apparently. You know what, fuck you, this is my story.)
“Oi, cunt,” Sailor Jerry said stereotypically. “Why’re you drinkin’ beer instead of Jagermeister?”
Jager stared at Jerry for a few seconds before his eyebrows shot up. “Dude. Dude! You’re, like, a genius! A brolicious brodigy of brodom!” He summoned a fifth of Jager (of...himself?) from somewhere and chugged the bottle. He went to smash the emptied bottle against his skull, but it just bounced off with a dull thunk. He stared confusedly at the bottle like it was some sort of magical monolith that defied explanation before smashing it against his skull harder. It shattered violently. Captain Dudebro had a stupid grin on his face. “Fuck, yeah! Jagermeis- err, I mean ‘me’!”
“Well, mate, I tried.” Sailor Jerry gave me a sympathetic look.
I sighed. It was going to be a long day...
* * * * *
After retrieving one of the asterisks from the conveniently placed chapter break, I hurled it at Dudebro like a ninja star. It caught him right between the eyes and he thudded to the ground like a bag of potatoes. Fuck, yeah, an asshole-in-one! I pumped a celebratory fist. Which was just me pumping a fist, the celebratory nature implied without me actually having to write it. But I did anyway because I suck at this.
It was about that time that Lyra groaned and started shifting underneath the dirt bike. Me’n’Jerry noped the fuck away from the area posthaste, entering Applejack’s farm and looking for the orange mare.
With a quick search and a humiliating lack of imagination, Jerry and I found the mare applebucking in a field nearby. It was spring. I looked around and noticed a grand total of zero apples on the apple trees. Applejack bucked a tree and a cataract of apples rained down, filling a bunch of buckets beneath its broad boughs. Because blunt alliteration is best alliteration. She noticed two strange bipedal creatures approaching her and cracked a warm smile, trotting over. Oh, thank God, she wasn’t some racist freak.
“Weyuhl howdeh thar’, pahrdnur!” she exclaimed happily.
“I have no idea what you just said.” In response, she twisted and bucked Sailor Jerry into a nearby tree. He rebounded like a rag doll, with a bunch of crunching sounds that I was fairly certain did not come from the tree. Whatever, cartoon physics, I’m sure he’d be fine.
“Mate,” he said weakly. “I can’t feel my legs. Why can’t I feel my legs?” He coughed up blood.
No, seriously, when shit like that happens in cartoons, you just wrap the person up in white bandages for a while and they make a full recovery without any debilitating disabilities, ever. They don’t even need surgery to repair the internal injuries, just magical anime bandages. He’d be fine.
“Help...me...” he croaked. I waved him off dismissively, then turned back to Applejack who had remained politely quiet for an awkward stretch of time so I could hack out more unnecessary prose.
“Why did you do that?!” I asked. Suddenly. As my query was quite sudden.
Suddenly, she responded, “Weuhl, shucks, shoohguhrcyoob! He wuz uh monstuhr. T’ain’t nuthin’ that Fluttershah cain’t fix.”
“I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” This was starting to seem like a bad idea. “Can you, uh, talk normal?”
“Ah never know what ta’ say in sitchyations like this,” she said guiltily. I recoiled, recognizing some of her words finally. I had actually written that exact line in another story. I really should go back and start fixing that story up, but instead I was traipsing around avoiding psychopaths and unicorn nymphos. Thank God this was just some weird hallucination. Or maybe I was dead and this was Hell. Or, quite possibly, I was just letting Applejack sit in awkward silence while she waited for me to respond without interrupting the story’s pacing. I was about to open my mouth to continue the conversation before someone else beat me to the punch.
“Glurb!” Steel Reserve shouted in alarm, rushing over to Sailor Jerry’s crumpled form. I didn’t need to be told what the heavy thumps approaching me from behind were. (It was Captain Morgan, for the retard or two who managed to make it this far without suffering from an aneurysm.)
“Applejack,” he said with hearty cheer. I gawked. I wasn’t even aware he could express pleasant emotions. “My...friend, here, is writing a story about ponies.”
“Uh, okay?” she said. I smiled inwardly. I understood her that time.
“And a human that goes to pony lands.”
She twirled her hoof, motioning for him to get to the point.
“It’s his first fic.”
“Oh.” Her green eyes looked me up and down. “Well, not much to work with, but I reckon with enough buckets of ale in me we could make a passable shipfic-”
“I’M NOT WRITING A DAMN SHIPFIC!” I shouted in Caps Lock for added effect.
Captain Morgan sighed. “Steel Reserve, please get Sailor Jerry to Fluttershy. It was supposed to be Feng who got bucked and needed healing.” He shot Applejack an annoyed glare, his grin morphing to a grimace momentarily before shifting back.
“Hodor!” Steely responded enthusiastically, scooping up Sailor Jerry.
“Wait.” I cocked an eyebrow at the steelworker. “Did you just-”
“Glurb!” he responded, clearly offended.
“Never mind that, Feng.” Captain Morgan turned on me. “And turned you on.” I don’t care what the crazy bastard said, I wasn’t turning this into that kinda story. And that was a bad joke on his part, anyway. “You wrote it.” I wished he stopped responding to me with the spoken word. Applejack was looking at him like he was crazy for talking to himself. At least she hadn’t broken the fourth wall, yet. That shit was getting old. Maybe, with her help...
“Actually, sugarcube, I know he’s crazy,” she said dryly. Or drily. Or fuck you. “I just think he’s crazy for what he’s thinkin’ of doin’. I got a lotta work to do, though, so I trust you learned a valuable lesson about dialogue?”
“What, you mean that my readers aren’t retarded and already imagine you speaking in a Southern accent without me bashing them in the face with it?”
“Yeah, that.” She smiled. “Well, most of ‘em ain’t retarded, anyway.” Somewhere, in a hospice on the East coast, a man with Down’s Syndrome turned to the nurse standing at his shoulder, asking her what ‘retarded’ meant. Meanwhile, in an arid city in Arizona, I secured my place in Hell. I don’t know why, one of my best friends has Down’s Syndrome. That means I can be as crass as I like about it. On the internet.
“Your side tangents have gone on long enough, boy,” Captain Hannibal lectured. Applejack was long gone before his words brought me out of my reverie. I slurped up a string of drool and wiped my chin off. “But you did learn a good lesson today, and I think it’s time you’re rewarded.”
“If you try to turn this into a clopfic again, I will try and fail horribly to kill you with your own sword-”
“Nonsense, boy.” I didn’t like what his smile told me. Which was nothing. I mostly just didn’t like the words that escaped his lips next. “We’re going to turn this into an HiE fic!”
“Uh, isn’t it already-”
“And to do that, we’re gonna be bringing your good buddy Kyle here to hang out with you!”
I paused. Kyle was my closest friend back in the real world, and the only coworker I liked. And if you think I chose the name ‘Kyle’ just to fuck with you, you’re wrong. That really was his name. Even if this was a bath salt-fever dream-coma-afterlife hallucination—and even if one of my prereaders spotted all those hyphens from a nearby tree with binoculars and thumped to the ground with a sudden case of lifelessness—things would be a lot more tolerable with Kyle here. Only guy I know who hasn’t managed to truly anger me, in spite of me knowing him for over three years. Yeah, I guess I was okay with hanging around him.
“Glad you’re willing to play along,” Captain Morgan said with a sneer. “Because Twilight just botched another spell, which accidentally freed Discord, who went back in time and altered space-time in the past such that a magical portal would appear for a few nanoseconds in an alternate reality with humans right as your friend threw himself on a grenade or a landmine or something to save his squadmates before waking up here even though he should be dead.”
“Yeah, that’s interesting,” I said. I stopped listening after ‘Twilight botched a spell’. I turned around with a smile. “Kyle, buddy! How’s it go-”
A very muscular man in jungle camouflage and dark green and black facepaint stared down the sights of his assault rifle, an assault rifle he rudely pointed at me. He also had a couple bandoliers of bullets crisscrossing his chest, a pistol grip shotgun peeking out over one shoulder, a rocket launcher peeking out over the other, no fewer than three sidearms in various holsters around his body—all of them .50-calibre Desert Eagles—an assortment of throwing knives, including a lot I probably couldn’t see, and finally, an honest-to-Amanomurakumo samurai sword hanging at his hip. This was on top of a comical amount of tactical gear and grenades and D-clips strung about his form, seemingly at random.
This was not Kyle.
“I am Colonel Sergeant Kyle von Steelhunter, of the U.S. Army and Navy S.E.A.L.s and Delta Force and Green Berets and Brownie Scouts! Put your hands on your head and identify yourself immediately!”
I shot my hands into the air immediately. “Whoa, whoa! Don’t shoot, I’m not a threat!”
“Identify yourself!”
“I’m Feng of, uh, America?” I offered tentatively.
He slumped slightly, relaxing, and dropped the barrel of his rifle. “Oh, good, you’re not a foreigner. And you’re white. That means you can’t possibly be evil.”
I chuckled nervously. “Uh, heh, yeah, right. Perfectly normal, red-blooded American who doesn’t wanna die.”
He stared at me with haunted eyes, before dropping his gaze. “No one wants to die, Feng of America. And yet they always do.” Oh, God, he was starting a monologue. “The Mwabari children of the African village me and my squad were sent to protect didn’t want to die, but...I still see them, the accusatory stares in their dead eyes as their malnourished forms lie still in the filth of their third world village.” I glared at Captain Morgan, silently mouthing, ‘I hate you.’ He smiled back at me. “Sometimes I wonder if I have so much blood on my hands that I don’t even deserve redemption.”
“That’s kinda cool, but-”
“For what is man if not a constant struggle to keep that blood inside, that seething rage of violence bottled, so that we can go on to live our lives in peace, always fighting to keep the darkness at bay,” he mused philosophically. I considered reaching for one of his pistols to end my own life.
“If only there were a world where my murderous expertise was unnecessary, that the violent monstrosity of my own humanity could be juxtaposed against a happy, innocent world without war. If only.”
I ignored him, turning to the lavender unicorn big red pirate. “What did I do to deserve this?” I asked, if the question mark didn’t give it away. “I’m a mostly good guy. Sure, every once in a while I’ll look up something slightly out of the norm on redtube, but for the most part I’m decent. Why must you subject me to this?”
“I’ll make sure to let Lyra know about your more random redtube reviews.” His grin was more not-so-nice than usual. Kyle von Steelhunter continued his painfully awkward monologue in the background. “As for why, how much time have you spent writing these four thousand words?”
I shrugged. “I dunno, a morning? If I get on a good kick, it’s not too hard for me to spit out five to seven thousand words in a day, so long as I don’t get distracted.”
“And yet you’re sitting here, listening to Gomer Kyle here rant about the value of human life like a middle schooler, instead of working on your own story and making it better?”
I was about to offer him a scathing rebuttal that involved me rolling a couple smokes and retreating to my bee-free bathroom to avoid actually having to write a rebuttal when I was interrupted by a voice.
A scratchy voice.
“Hey! Think you monsters can steal from Applejack’s orchards, huh?!”
I immediately dove behind the stereotypical commando as he finished his oration with, “Maybe, man is the real monster.” He was promptly slammed into by a cyan blob trailing rainbows. I was starting to feel a little hungry, so I wrote in Skittles dropping from the rainbow trail and chomped down on the candies hungrily as Special Forces Kyle and Rainbow Dash hurtled and ricocheted off the ground from the impact. I like Skittles. I hope Colonel Sergeant Kyle broke something that killed him.
Instead, the mean military guy and the pegasus wrestled for dominance on the ground, shooting up clouds of dust. I hovered my finger over the Backspace key in case their wrestling turned into something that might get this fic to the featured box. Thankfully, after a time their sparring ended harmlessly with the pegasus pinning him and the man commenting something about how much stronger ponies were than humans. He acted abashed for a bit before Rainbow started letting up her guard. Then he cracked a joke or something before she laughed and let him up and they both began trotting back to me.
This is mostly just an outline of their actions, so I don’t forget. I’ll start detailing the, uh, details just as soon as I proofread the earlier bits I just wrote. Just need to...holy Hell, I’m drunk. Good thing the fanfiction site I post stories on didn’t put the Edit button right next to the Publish button, amirite?
Anyway, just need to check on some of my BBcode formatting and
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2741061 I swear I'll include "tittysprinkles" at a later date. If I remember.
I won't remember.
2746466 Damn straight.
Or dam straits?
Fuck it, I give the people what they need. Usually water. Sometimes words.
2746508
Wait, didn't this get into the feature box already?
Also, THANK YOU FOR FINALLY OFFING THE GRAMMAR NAZI IN MY MIND! I'M FREE!!!
Wait. Shit. He's back. And now he's taking my brain cells one by one into gas chambers, deleting my memory of this story. What was it about again?
2746625 Sadly, nothing I write will ever make the feature box. I'm far too busy with the hygiene of my followers than I am with crafting tales that actually garner popular opinion.
Here, step into my shower...
2746630
STOP! Suck my robot balls.
Now take a step back and let me freeze yours off.
A little carbonite bath
for your goose-steppin' ass
call my homeboy in Isreal
See who got the last laugh.
I like you. You make fun of things that bother me without being offended by them without being offended by them. Not a typo.
I love Sailor Jerry's attempt to get Jager to kill himself. Quite clever.
2751825 Half the things I'm making fun of in this story are bad habits of my own. I certainly don't find myself offensive. Mostly just shameless.
2760174
No, I meant some of the dumber HiE tropes, both affecting the human and the ponies.
I real a lot of MST so normally when these things show they just get torn into, also with satirical trollfics. But here you poke fun at them, showing them to be dumb, but it's more "this is silly, look at how silly this is" than "F*** THIS BS."
2761167 Ah, gotcha. I doubt there'll ever be any real vitriol behind anything I write in this fic. Partially because I do still like fics that have some of these fanon stereotypes. But mostly because I write stories about cute, multi-colored ponies, and injecting too much cynicism into that process would seem like a betrayal of why I like the show to begin with.
2792205 Perfect? Perfect, you say?!
If it were perfect, that crazy ass pirate bastard would have stopped lecturing me (read: threatening me with an untimely demise) long ago.
Does it still count as a lecture-story if half the crap that's lectured about is lectured to me for my bad writing habits?
Am I consciously trying to use the word 'lecture' as often as lecturely possible for no reason beyond simple intoxication? Even if 'lecturely' is not the adverb form of the word 'lecture'? Even if there is no adverb form for 'lecture'? Even if I have failed miserably to create a new word like Shakespeare did with 'luggage' by writing 'lecturely'? Even if I chose 'lecturely' instead of 'lecturous' because 'lecturous' sounds too much like 'lecherous' and we haven't even had dinner and a movie yet? Am I just as prone to be 'lecturely' as I am 'lecherous' when I'm as inebriated as I am now?
The answer, my friend?
Lecture.
2951821 i.qkme.me/3paiy2.jpg
This is the most awesome fucking story I've read in a long time. Hell, it's more of a blog.
I need to write this shit down, and you need to get drunk-as-all-fuck more often.
3011731 Methinks a blog would be terribly more informative and less interesting:
Day 1: I submitted my chapter, finally! Thank God, I have some breathing room. Time to get drunk to celebrate!
Day 2-5: I've got an idea how to meld the story to the narrative I have in my screwed up brain! Time to get drunk to celebrate!
Day 3-6: Even though I've hit a roadblock, I've gotten 500-2k words of the next chapter written! Time to get drunk to celebrate!
Day 4-7: I'm writing a story, and have been drinking copiously for hours! Woohoo, time to get drunk to celebrate...oh. Well, I somehow wrote a few thousand words since then, may as well submit the chapter!
Day 8: I just reread what I published. What have I done?! Time to get drunk to commiserate...
The reality is terribly less interesting than sociopathic rum and defenestrating awful beers might suggest, let me assure you.
3012613
... You sure know yourself well.
Point made.
About time someone mentions redtube it's always pornhub or hentai Haven with the idiots writing these stories.
Oh do you roll your own
9221477
I do. Much, much cheaper that way. I technically use filtered tubes and a tobacco injector, though.
9222225
I know my mom used to roll hers as well as well I just smoke the cheap dollar cigars from the gas station