FUCK.

I sat here wondering what to write next, and I came up with a four-letter word. I didn't invent the word. There is no trademark on it. No one is paying me a slice of the proceeds to swear.
   Shame, really, as I'd be a something-aire. Like a billionaire, only more so. A jizzillionaire. That may be rude. I care about shit like that. Care about as in nurture.
   So how is the blog going?
   Badly.
   And the writing?
   Worse.
   I have a lot to do, and this end of things is suffering like it's spewing out froth that's about to go out of fashion. Get it while it is warm and steaming.
   You might want to skip that.
   I feel I have to do some kind of American parlous state of the union speech. There's a story fragment on the blog. I have a few titles in mind. And I wrote up some rules for writing.
   But other shit takes me away from turning this blog into a fiction dump. No excuses. I'm too fucking busy. That is it. I have no fiction for my no audience.
   People turn up, and check out the site. Why, I have no fucking idea. I know things are bad as I am not even being fucking spammed.
   But that's okay. The fiction isn't working out for me. And that's fucking okay too. I wade through a swamp of curry-coloured shit and slurp too much of it for my own good.
   Will this blog continue? Yes. Don't expect great blog posts. This one is crappy. Moaning about not having the time to write stuff for the other blog pages. Well where the fuck did I find the time to write this piece for the archive?
   I squeezed the time out of an overdone fizzy orange, took the green pips and swallowed them. The resultant fungal-based acid trip banana-peeled my fingers and typing happened by accident.
   I scribble notes on lined paper, then fuck off and write more notes on a computer file. The two sets of notes remain separate. There's a middle section in my head, with more notes.
   I have to lock the pieces of the puzzle together. I must hammer some of the jigsaw bits into place. There's no box, and no photo. I don't have a map for this story. It's slurry. Oozing. Trickling, but with no antidote.
   This is now a blog about struggling just to write shit, and, fuck, how the fuck is that supposed to inspire me, let alone anyone else?
   Fuck.