Shit that I think is bollocks - Everything that I do

I sit here typing these words, excited like a little child who has just been told that dinner for the week is sherbet dip dabs and magic rainbow fucksticks, basted in red bull. I type feverently, hitting the wrong keys just to get everything written as fast as possible. If I stop for even half an hour, I will come back and re-read the post, only to realize that I am a talentless fuckwit and delete everything.

I always thought I'd like to write a book, but unless it was a very small book that wasn't very good, it would never get past about five chapters. No matter how excited or confident I am about something I write or create, it becomes part of the cesspit of "Shit that I think is bollocks" within a few short minutes.

I like to draw pictures and write, don't get me wrong. Its like a handjob off a liquid-wristed girl, but for your brain. The slimy love custard is words rather my unborn children though. And much like a wank or a handjob, you feel brilliant for five minutes after before sinking back into despair and begin to claw the semen from your bellybutton. 

Being as broke as a kettle from Argos, I tend to draw pictures for my lovely girlfriend rather than buy her extravagant gifts. I try to buy her pretty things when I have money, but poems or pictures will suffice in the meantime. I draw these big pictures of anything and everything from the dark recesses of my imagination and feel accomplished as I place them in my bag. Upon gifting them to her, she looks at them and smiles and tells me how lovely they are. I gaze upon them (this is usually the second time I have ever looked at them) and see a horrible pile of scribbles. If you gave ten retarded people glitter, highlighters and those blue bic pens that don't ever work, and told them to draw World War 2 in one picture, it would look similar to what I see.

Thus, I will never accomplish anything of any artistic merit ever. Back to the quagmire, you horrible fish beast.