All the magazines in this bookstore are full of rubbish.  Everyone’s trying to get you to do something.  Dress better in 2016.  Don’t tuck your shirt into your underwear.  Invest your money.  Invest your time.  Become rich.  Filthy fucking rich.  Forbes rich.  Six pack abs in thirteen seconds.  Get laid.  Don’t cum so fast.  DYI.  Do this. Do that.  Do them.  

And the ads - skinny people with all the deformities photoshopped out.  In reality, they’ve got cleft lips, pimples like ravioli stuffed with sour cream.  Buy this shirt.  It will make you less fat, less ugly, more of a douche.  Look at this California-five, with her greasy hands on the hood of this 1928 Ford-Fuckoff.  It runs on diesel.  $2.49 a gallon.  It runs on dreams.  $2.49 a gallon.  Buy the car.  Buy the woman.  She’s for sale too (see index).

Buy a gun.   Buy a boat.  Buy our magazine with old news, rehashed.  $29.99.  Go fuck yourself.  I’m grumpy.  What do you want from me?  I’m sitting here beating my head against this notebook.  It’s Monday.  What are you going to write for your blog?  I should splash this coffee in my eyeballs for calling it a blog in the first place.  Does that make me a blogger?  I’d rather be called a nigger…ummm…

This is going exactly as I planned.  The ideas are flowing now.  I’m being vile and obnoxious for the sake of it.  I’ll have my weekly piece written in no time.  Up on the internet, where it will live on, infinitely, like fossilized dog shit.  Years from now, children and grandchildren will be able to search me, wearing their Google iPatches.  Between long stretches of virtual reality porn, rubbing themselves raw against 3D printed couch cushions, spritzed with the synthetic aroma of vagina and anal beads, they’ll stumble upon January 2016, when Grant was upset about nothing, about magazines.

Fuck you.  I don’t want kids.  I want a vasectomy.  If I had steadier hands, I’d do it myself.  Fucking blogger.  Ugh.  With any luck, my computer will get a North Korean virus.  All of this babble, this bullshit will be wiped away.  Replaced by a fractal image of a semi-solid Kim Jong Un cock.  Take that, future.

I prefer not to be remembered.  Not as a man.  Not as a writer.  Not frozen in perpetual Google Goo.  The bus will keep rolling long after I’m gone.  There will be better writers.  Bloggers will be extinct - the bunch of passive aggressive fruit flies they are (*we are).  Maybe there won’t be writing at all.  Everything will be pictures - flat, false-toothed, unblemished, unbelievably boring, with all the emotion sucked away.  

Magazines suck.  The computers are taking over.  Eat a dick.  #BlogLife