…and I had always known it was going to be this way. There’s a growing disaffection in me as she sits on my face and I eat her out. I’m making slight growling noises like I’m a dog or something, like I’m a big bear, and she’s wriggling and giggling; she’s squirming as I make sloppy work over it...
My name? My name is not important. What is important is that I am a writer. I am twenty-four years old and only recently published, a fact I am constantly amazed by; daily I have to pinch myself to check I’m not dreaming. For this has always been my dream, to succeed through creativity is my life’s ambition.
Like everyone, I want to make money, I want to be famous, I want to go down in history as being important, but I want to achieve all that through writing, to be a famous novelist.
My problem is that now I am published, now that I am considered a novelist in my own full standing, an achievement I would have given anything for a year ago, I’m not satisfied; I want more.
More fame, more money, more recognition, more hot sex with models.
For everything that has happened to me, nothing really seems to have changed – I’m not famous, I’ve made some money, enough to give up work for a while, but I’m not rich, I often sleep with beautiful women but I did that before the book deal (and enjoyed it more then too).
So it is this ambition in me, this need for further success, in my case literary glory, that makes me unhappy. It sickens me and makes me feel empty and alone. It is biggest part of me and yet it is the part I hate the most; I sometimes hate myself.