Losing My Way

"It has come to my attention that you are planning to write a novel without me in it," Satan said to me while we both shopping at a dollar store. "Yes, that's right," I told him. "So what?" "Well, it seems to me that by writing in your book that I won't be in the book that you have put me in the book." I grabbed some chocolate covered mint cookies and placed them in my cart. "I hadn't thought of that, but just mentioning you doesn't make you part of the story," I argued. His eyes burned red as he sneered. "My friend, it most certainly does. So I suggest you let me defower some nuns, or have a Cardinal give me head."

Years passed after that tiny truth was uttered and I became a man, of no great importance but a lure for troubled souls. This tale concerns a few I met along my way. All good people lost in the eddies of the river of time, trying to get back into the flow of life. I believe they found me when I was stuck on a sandbar and nudged me back into the current. So will it be a happy tale? I hope so. All these great authors and others usually entertain me but they are so mean. That Dostoevsky fellow isn't happy unless there's murders and suicides and constant suffering, and what he did to that nice Prince Myshkin was so cruel. Why couldn't The Idiot have ended with the prince becoming a private eye in Moscow? Instead...I shudder to think about it. Read the book and be horribly depressed that an author could be so mean to such a nice guy. God, I hope nothing like that happens in my story, but I digress.

Where do I start? How about at the beginning? Well then....once upon a time, there was a Big Bang, though I doubt there was any sound, and since no creatures yet existed to hear it, it's just as well. 13.8 billion years, 9 months, 2 days, 13 hours, 16 minutes and 42 seconds later, I was torn from my mother's womb, and there was a Small Scream.

Wilting in the sun, all was dead, but from death new life comes. No tears need be shed.

Nearly a whole month since my last words. Was it because of my queer song, in both definitions of the term? Not this time: I will write about books. Funny though....I am writing this on my phone, which gives me choices, and the choice given after 'about' was between Cock and Ireland, and by some miracle I didn't start writing about a cock getting hard as I stroked it, and no man was telling me to put it in my mouth. No, it's books I will write of, but what book? I used to review every book I read. It see.s so long ago. Sadly, there is no critique of Don Quixote, which is about the time that I stopped reviewing books. Too bad. That was a good book, full of florid language and crude comedy. No wonder it made others want to write novels, for better and worse (mostly worse, as shown by Sturgeon's Law). Perhaps I should write about everything I have read, from Pynchon to Dostoevsky and the life of da Vinci, and Victory: An Island Tale by Joseph Conrad, perhaps the

Here am writing again and I am very excited to see naked men having sex with me and I think about sucking cock really well; that would be fun since it could lead to getting my ass fucked FUCKED FUCKED FUCKED¡¡!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! O and I wanted to be so good and only be all literary and on the second day I am writing about Cock and how much I need to get a hold of one and put that cock in my mouth. I say good man will you recite my new poem while I suck your cock? So he recites my poem as I put his cock in my mouth. I like penis cuz I'm a genius/ I want one up my ass/ a nice cock up my ass up my ass UP MY ASS//// I want a nice cock up my ass////// Fuck my ass and soothe a troubled soul///// I think of your cock as salvation////// Hallelujah o Jesus watch me suck a cock////// that will soon go up my ass///// I feel like a genius//// when I get fucked up the ass////// I am a genius so Fuck my ass///// I am a genius so Fuck my ass///// hard to say that with a cock in my mouth///