Lately my cousin has been writing while under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol. He says it frees his inhibitions. I tell him, write however you want, kids are going to buy your novels because you're famous already.
From Chapter 17
Sushi Jackson-Jones's body washed up on the shore in Santa Monica among the pier pilings and bums and hypo needles. A surfer found it, thereby launching the rocket the payload of which was the third-most-notorious murder case in Hollywood history. I never had much use for a nail clipper. The hammering, the hammering, the hammering of a boom economy. Suckers!
You can imagine what effect typing this claptrap has had on my poet's soul.
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