dear publisher.

dear publisher,

where's my book deal? i mean, it's all bullshit, right? it's just about luck and who you know, obviously. it's not about talent, or how hard you work, how often you write, or any of that shit. because look, stuff white people like got made into a book. even that fucking lolcatz has a book. where's my share? i mean, christ, i'm not a great writer, but i'm confident enough to say i'm probably slightly more entertaining than maria shriver's just who will you be? every piece of trash i rummage through on shelves in bookstores becomes another slap in the face.

so, this is it. i'm making my demands here and now. i decide what entries go in, and since i'll face too many copyright issues printing the images i googled, i'll want artists i choose to hand-draw new images. i'll want enough money to pay off my student loans and the loans of everyone i know. yeah, that's right. it's gonna be a couple mill, you feel me? i'll want all the books printed on recycled paper bought from a local paper company, and i don't want a single person making a cent off me. yeah, that's right. you pay me a couple mill, you print my books, you distribute them, and you don't get shit in return. it's called volunteer work, pro bono. if idealistic twenty-two year olds right out of college can do it, multi-billion dollar publishing companies can, too.

i'll want to do an international book tour, too. so all them white folks can gather up in a church or a place like city hall and i can read and they can all go, "mmm-hmm." and then afterward, they can ask me questions like i was some exotic foreigner, or better yet, the second coming. i'd be humble, but i'd also be thinking, "i got you now, suckas." i'll invite people i used to know to these readings, and i'll praise them or tell them off, however which way it went down once upon a time.

so, come on. make me a book. i'll write all goddamn day if i have to.

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