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.