The Worst News is No News

Fuck, what am I gonna do? My meeting earlier with Ms. Humbert… I can’t believe she’s asking me to do this. I can’t believe… lie! She wants me to lie! No, excuse me: “be creative” and “find” a news story by tomorrow morning. I went to– GRADUATED from journalism school. Sure, it wasn’t the most prestigious but, damnit, I worked my ass off and I made it. To the great Channel 44, BLST in Podunk, This State.

I had dreams, Diary. DREAMS. Pages of them between your covers. Where did I go wrong? Where did I go wrong? I’m gonna check. Oh great. Fucking great. I do a good thing and I’m thrown into the trash compactor of the U-S-wacky-A. I do a report on how the caretaker of an orphanage was misappropriating funds for years… and I’m the fucking villain because Lost Children shut down a month later. How does that work, Diary? How, in the name of Cronkite, the fuck does that work?

BLST was the only network that would accept me after– Wait, you know all that afterword stuff. This is why you don’t drink, Diary. As much as I hate it, despise it, abhor it, wanna feed it sideways into a woodchipper… I need this job. I love being a reporter and it’s the only thing I’m good at. Remember, heh, remember that time I tried working retail? You’d think, “I like people, working in a store will be great while I school.” Maybe something happens when they walk through the door, some strange beam gets zapped into their brains (story idea?). People become fucking stupid and reckless when it comes time to buy things. Remember that crackpipe I found in one of the aisles? Or when someone made The Biggest Mess on the bathroom walls? The womens’ bathroom walls.

Well, this bottle of rum’s almost gone. I think I’ve fucked-off enough journalistic integrity and credibility and all those other itties to do Ms. Humbert’s biddy. Ms. Humbert’s bidding. Bitch. “Man Tortured by Bullet Ants by NRA Member”. “Joker Vomits in Trashcan: No One Laughs”. “Woman Orgasms to Death While Bike-Riding on a Bumpy Road”. “Girl Perpetually Falling Down Up-Escalator; Brother Feeds Her with a Fishing Rod”. “THE DOWN SYNDROME UPRISING”.

Schadenfreude rules these days, so I should think of something violent. And sexy. And… stuff. The bullet ants thing would’ve worked, but no one knows what the fuck bullet ants are. I’ll snatch the torture thing– No, wait… I don’t wanna bring back waterboarding. What else can you do with someone in a locked room? Murder or rape them. But that’s boring. What if there were two victims? Two murders or two rapes? How symmetrical. Twit. Wait… what if they were being held captive and their sadistic captor made one of his– her– her. Equality, right? This horrible woman makes the other woman choose between either murdering or raping her boyfr– FIANCE! He proposed to her earlier that… No, she finds the ring in his pocket when she drops his pants because she decides to rape him. With a broomstick. Because that’s love. “Calamity Jane Ruptures Nuptials”. Brilliant.

Don’t stop now! Read the first four chapters of my novel, “Lie”, courtesy of Goodreads. It’s a surreal dramedy about four women who go on vacation to help one through a life-changing decision. And if you liked what you’ve read, you can pick it up for only $1.99 wherever eBooks are sold. Thanks for reading.


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