Novel? Not With Monkeys Around!

I’m not sure if the adage that money is the root of all evil is true, but if it is, I must be one holy mother fucker! What would I do if I received a fat check for a first novel? All I know is it’s a mistake because giving me money makes about as much sense as giving a chimpanzee a dildo.

I realize some might use their wealth to pay for a weeklong hedonistic and drug-fueled adventure in Vegas. In the name of debauchery, the days are filled with the sound of slot machines as they sing lady luck’s siren song. The hot dessert nights, however, feed a different craving. This naughty hunger might be satisfied by snorting cocaine off the perfect belly of a high-priced escort. Writer’s note: I don’t condone the use of illicit drugs. In place of cocaine, might I suggest taking tequila shots out of the high-priced escort’s navel instead?

Me? I would spend my wealth in the most boring way possible. I’d pay bills, put my kiddos through college, and buy my wife a few of the things she has always wanted. When it comes to wealth, growing up poor tends to stifle any golden fantasies of having money and all hope of wealth is stomped into the ground with the steel-cleated boots of reality. Frankly, the thought of being wealthy, fuck even being middle-class seemed about as possible to me as witnessing aliens perform extensive anal probing on bigfoot using the still attached horn of a unicorn while a leprechaun keeps sasquatch sedated with anesthesia made from pixie dust.

So, should I ever find myself with a large advance from publishing a novel, the only thing I would do for myself is immediately check into the nearest psychiatric facility. Since I have a little money, I might splurge a little and pay extra for a straitjacket with my initials embroidered on it. Only in my deepest state of lunacy could I ever believe that I am capable of writing and publishing a novel. If I’m ever found experiencing this literarily based delusion of grandeur, please lock me in a nice, warm, padded cell (wearing my embroidered straitjacket) for my own protection. After all, even someone who is slightly mad can come to accept that they’ve officially lost the battle with the voices in their head. I believe I am just self-aware enough to understand when I have transitioned from slightly sanity-challenged to the full on, “Arts and crafts time will be held in the dayroom after the nurses distribute medication” level of bat guano fucking crazy.

A first novel advance check isn’t in the cards for me because my current psychotropic medication regimen isn’t strong enough to burn a path through the insanity drenched, rabid spider monkey filled technicolor jungle within my head. Without the clarity provided by a strong antipsychotic defoliant and insane monkey repellant, I can’t write a novel. I would be too busy ducking flying insane monkey feces.