Monday, January 10, 2005

He escrivado.

Couldn't sleep last night, not even after generous doses of stinky valerian tea and BEER, so surfed and cracked open one of my old yarns to do some clean-up.

It was one of my sex robot pieces. At the time I wrote it I was fairly pleased with it, but on re-reading it last night I discovered it was full of this writerarily retarded thing I do which is to bung in several wodges of text in there explaining very clunkily why I wrote the story. "Do you see? This is a metaphor for our consumerist culture! This is a critique of the Barbie aesthetic! Look, I'm all political and a Feminist and everything! I'm not just a weirdo who likes to write about limbless sex robots, honest!" Clunky, clunky, clunky, makes reading the thing like pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks over a cattle-grid.

Man, I should just chill out and accept all that. I'm a fucking weirdo, the story is about a sex robot, take it any way you want it.

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