Here’s the thing. The Obama administration can, and probably will, shoot me in the head. Not that I’m dangerous, or a real threat, but just because they can.

Think it would fall in the category of unfinished business. Because I wrote this, the first time anyone saw him whole.

Nobody read it. Because I’ve been blacklisted for a long time. First, for not being afraid of feminists and calling them out with my Insect Brain Theory, second for being the only white male unafraid to use the term nigger when referring to thugs on the streets of my hometown. That aside, I’m the greatest writer of the twentieth century and the way things are looking, even my Facebook page is better than any other writer can do, diminished by age as it is.

My wife is presently racing against time. Trying to get my writings in print before I expire of a heart attack or stroke. We can trust her motives, because the world is not beating a path to my door. Nobody wants to hear what I have to say. I’m a male Cassandra. The worst possible thing to be. Five books in print.

All of them better than anyone writing alive, and I’m on the utter outside.

Which is fine. Both Poe and Mozart died in pauper’s graves. Happy to do the same. Not that I’m in their league. Unless I am.

My wife, bless her heart, just wants me to live. She knows I’m sitting on the biggest pile of great writing anyone ever had, and she knows that each publication takes me closer to the end. So. Dutifully, methodically, beautifully, faithfully, she prepares manuscript after manuscript for publication. One more small time book, more brilliant than the last, before a really big one nobody can ignore.

That will be Book 7. With 30 yet to go. Or more.

She just wants me to live. Can I? Working on it. Okay?

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=KZ_7br_3y54

But not my coffin. Not yet.