Q: How do you write?
A: Good writing comes on like a bad piss in a place inhospitable to that necessity. You have to get it out, but there’s no pen, no paper. You go over it in your head and it mutates and evolves, then it devolves, then it changes its eye color by putting in mismatched contacts to masquerade them as heterochromatic-enigmatic, it dyes its hair, it puts on a new hat, it purses its lips, it changes its style, so that by the time you get to your little room with the desk and the notepad and the typewriter and the fast internet connection which you can use to check your facts and the spelling of the word “boondoggle” (boon-dog-uhl) in an online dictionary, it is all a culminated futility like the last rites whispered and you just have the words: “if you don’t love me then at least lie to me awhile and grant me the odd meretricious orgasm” and something as silly as “future doesn’t matter much when you’ve got bourbon”. And you’re so angry that you could spit, or start shooting smack again (because then it would all be blissfully inconsequential again), because no more words will come. So you put on some music, wash you face, roll a cigarette with some hash that you’ve first melted then crushed into the tobacco, and finally sit still; so still that you’ve caught completely unaware that the words come back again. And they are better. And they will make someone smile. And they will make someone think. And they will make someone know how to spell the word “boondoggle”.