When the end slowly reaches you all that remains is nostalgia. Boy have I got a lot of nostalgia these days. Or is it baggage? I’ve also got a lot of baggage that has finally reached the point of no friggin return. For example. I have around twenty years of worst-writing material laying around taking up space, collecting dust, in the way. No. Seriously. For a long time I’ve been wanting to throw all this sh*t away. Like life, the dream must come to an end, eh. And so. I’ve got typed manuscripts, hand written plays, stupid poems made from words cut out of newspaper articles and doodles of snot and cum that is all just begging to be finally put where it belongs, where both of us belong–in the fcuking trash. Of course, there is some worst-writing that I regret throwing away–which is probably the reason I’ve held on to this krapp for so long. I had a hundred page manually typed manuscript once that, due to the circumstance of birth, NOT being able to pick & choose parents, sibling rivalry angst, etc.,–and finally coming to terms with NOT being a victim (of life) but instead just accepting the fact that I’m a loser–that I threw in the trash bin. After waking a week later from that drunkin stupor I turned to the swollen chick next to me and said: where the fcuk is my manuscript? Oh well. I actually kicked myself for doing that. I think it might have been a story that I could have learned to like–which is what happens to most of my stories. Or at least I could have found a way to get used to dealing with the fact that such krapp came out of me. But I threw it away. I threw it away like I fcuked bimbos here or there when my cock could still be veiny and purple and careless about the walls we must get threw. The walls have won. Again. Oh well. So I decided to keep around some of the stuff I’ve written. Until now. Until the world could finally create a machine that would help me get rid of all the material that collected the dust of my life and allow me to put this krapp where it belongs. Welcome to worst-writer’s digitised world. Or maybe not. Nomatter. Above is a pic of about a third of the material that I’ve scanned so far. And the only reason I’ve been able to get this far is because I bought something. I mean, dear worst-reader, isn’t that how we all get somewhere, something, somehow? Buy something. Consume to survive. In my case, I bought some fancy engineered scanner. Not one of them bullsh*t flatbed scanners. Flatbed scanners suck. Can you imagine having to put each one of the pages (from the pic above) in a flatbed scanner? Fcuk that! Well, since we’re on the subject, thank your God for two things. One, they finally made a scanner with a feeder that works. Two, I can afford to pay the stupid-money for such a device. I mean, come on. This device cost four hundred plus euros. You can get a flatbed scanner these days for under a hundred. I know. I know. Flatbed’s suck. I’ve already made that clear. But still, just because it has a half decent paper-feeder doesn’t mean that it has to cost stupid-money? Do you know what stupid-money is, dear worst-reader? It’s the money we pay for this life that leads to more of our devaluation. Or maybe not. Moving on. Enough of my bitchin’ about stupid-money. The thing is this: it took me less than a few hours to scan more than a thousand pages of worst-writing in order to continue digitising my worst-world. In fact, the thing that took longest was figuring out how to organise the scans. And I’m not sure if I’ve figured that out. But I also don’t care. The sh*t is scanned and the pile in the pic above will be where we both belong soon enough.