success is social suicide - but who cares if you're an author?
Thursday, 2 July 2015
Thanks to all who pledged. I can now look people in the eye and no longer wonder how many pledges they are worth. I no longer need to hang about the Terminus store and offer to buy booze for those that look a trifle under twelve – if they pledge their pocket money. I no longer need to make up wraps and slip talcum powder to people in the local boozer telling them it will be really bad for them (advice is always free) – if you pledge. I no longer need to attend funerals and when someone can’t quite place who I am and, instead, ask me what I do, I no longer need to weep and tell them I’m an author and it’s the last thing poor old Mattie wanted – you could pledge and remember her that way. I’ll no longer need to door-to-door people with debilitating mental-health conditions that can’t remember you’re not related to them or how many times they’ve been shown on a shiny new computer how to open an email account and pledge. I’ll no longer need to dognap –down Shep! – some confused old soul's pet. Some confused old soul that has wandered away, looking for him and can’t find home. Fill his head, in tropical heat, with magical thinking and pledge fever. Thanks to you my heart need no longer be a Tory walnut clipped to the bone. I’m a soft touch now, drowning with good will. I am once again the charlatan I was. Cheers. The drink is on you.
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