Introduction

I tried to claw out of my mother’s pussy sideways.

It would be my first failure in life. The first of many stubborn attempts.

This novel is nothing but a diatribe. A meandering account of mental illness, affluenza, drug use, depravity, chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), and psychosis. It will focus mostly on demons, despair, although it will contain moments of levity and optimism. It will contain triumph.

This is not literature in its pure form.

This book was inspired by Henry Miller’s “Tropic of Cancer,” and is dedicated to him. It is also dedicated to bad writers, failed musicians, Dada artists, broken actors, and comedians who enjoy being booed...

This book is in praise of hair metal and gangsta rap.

This book is for CTE survivors and strivers, and people in prisons, both physical and mental, and for those on the outside. The weirdos, demimondes, the outcasts. Those unable and unwilling to conform to consumerist society, groupthink, and traditionalist ideals.

This book will not conform to “TL;DR” culture.

And it will not conform to Cancel Culture, a pandemic in which creators are terrified to express themselves, share their imaginations, deepest thoughts ... There will be no self-censoring, no fear of the bloodthirsty vampires of political correctness.

I am not afraid of the vampires and their Stalinism. Twitter Mobs are welcome...

This book is the exorcism of demons, and its stories are written like impressionist paintings. Make of them what you will.

This book, really, is a time capsule. A collection of memories. An account of a journey. Much of it was written during the time of CORVID, in which there was ample time for self-reflection...

This book is not a book. It is a spit in the face, a kiss, and a love letter to letters. It is a stubborn attempt, coming out sideways.

This book is ugly. It is deliberately imperfect, much like life itself.

Chapter 1 »