And so it is time for my annual “Holy Crap The New Year Is Here And Now You Should Reevaluate Your Shit And Realize You’d Be Much Happier As An Accountant Or Botanist Or Some Fucking Thing” post. More reasons you do not want to be a writer:
It is not coincidental that the name of my book is BLACKBIRDS and that many of the dead birds are also blackbirds (or, at least, birds that happen to be black of feather). Why is that, you ask? I’m totally the guy killing all those birds. I’m really glad to have that off my chest.
You know what time it is. It’s time to dip my ladle into the river of depravity, a river that draws miscreants and deviants to the shores of terribleminds, as ineluctable as the tides, as certain as my utter pantslessness. It’s for time for — *crash of thunder* *keening violin* *braying donkey* SEARCH TERM BINGO.