Oh look he’s a writer now well why don’t you write me something Hemingway

by Augie Truesdale

Oh, so you're an author now? Thinking about trading it all in for a futon and four walls? Get that crumpled picture of Kerouac and take to drink. You don't need nobody. “Yeah it's a book about . . . cliches,” he admitted, showing off how self-aware he was. It's the seminal work about cliches for whatever week it's written and it'll never make it to a shelf. It'll dog-ear in a storm drain somewhere, filed under 'C' for . . . what was it?

Cliches, that's right. Madly in love is just that -madness- you say? Because psychology. Oh, well do tell. Does the thought of Kerouac make you drink? Hit that snare for me one time, boy, he slurred. Two tramps trample in the naughty night never knowing . . . Jesus you actually did it, didn't you? Do us all a favor, author. Next time the muse consumes you, ascend the gargoyle and fling yourself onto Lonely Street. Let the world enjoy a tall glass of drain cleaner over dying dining on your dull drivel. Jesus, you did it again. 

“Yeah I'm writing The Great American Cliche.” It's about a boy and a girl and a conflict and a twist and a life lesson and sure there's some Holden Caulfield and yes some sharks eat his marlin but this one's different, man.