I used to have eczema, one of the more stately writer rashes, but I haven’t been writing enough for years to produce a single flake. My other writerly infirmities include fingers stripped of their cuticles with occasional blood, poor eyesight of almost Miltonic magnitude, I don’t go to the bathroom or I go too much, my head throbs, and my hands are hairy. Did I mention that my back hurts? That my tears are very salty? Oceanic. Why shouldn’t writers complain? Everyone hates us? We hate ourselves! All this sensitivity and for what? Giving up Coke Zero and for what? And cigarettes and percodan and Kanye: for what!? Writers beware: your writing sucks and then you die.
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