My closest friend is writing a book – and by closest I mean the one that is physically the furthest away – so I’m reading the drafts as he believes I’ll be cruel but constructive though unavoidably gushing in my feedback because he is obviously a far better writer than me.
I’ll get it set out in carbon for the tattooist but at the moment I’m still wrecking my idiot brain with the script I stupidly jumped at the opportunity to write, and by wrecking I mean coming off the codeine with Captain America and Valerian tea.
Plus I need to show my current creative partner something by the weekend as my good-grace period is soon to run out and I don’t want to end up in a shallow grave. Trouble is, I’m not used to white wine and I can’t fuck the SOUL out of these fucking WORDS.
All this research that he never expected me to do because this gig was supposed to be FUNNY has metastasized into my own verbatim breakdown. Still, as long as he decides to animate it then it’s gravy; if not then it’s a great tragedy.
And now I have a headache. Maybe I should take a painkiller. Oh yeah, that’s right.
Whatever, bitches. Expect supermassive awesome videos soon; about queers, catholics and cocktails.