The Unhappy Death of Ben W., Failed Writer

I guess it's important to set my intentions.

I don't wanna be famous. I don't want a huge fan base. I don't want any critical acclaim.

Well, that's obviously not true.

How do I wanna deal with journalists when they ask me about my writing? How do I wanna deal with crazy fans? What about partying with fans? These are all things I'm gonna have to think about before they happen. I'ma be fine. How bad can wealth and fame be? What's the worst that can happen?

My writing starts getting worse so I spend more time with my fans who make me feel better. I start partying all the time and making bad decisions with the young women I'm partying with and my wife takes my kids and leaves.

I start resenting my fans because I feel like they're the ones keeping me from my work. I start acting like a dick. They fuck off, calling me sad and a has-been.

I return to my pages, full of fire and determination. I'm gonna finish this project then start my masterpiece. I'll get clean and get my wife and kids back. I feel more motivated than I have done in years.

I start reading what I've written so far. It's garbage. Nonsense. Drivel. It's barely coherent. Well, that's okay. Fuck all that shit. I'm a new man. It's time to start that project I've always wanted to write. It's time for my masterpiece.

So I go make an Old Fashioned and sit down in front of my computer with a new document open and before I know it there's tears sliding down my face. Why? Because I know my wife's words are true. I'm washed up. I've lost my edge.

So I take my drink out on the porch and in a quiet summer dawn with just the birds singing, I survey the destruction of my life.

I'd like to think I've made more people happy than unhappy but I'm really not sure. And anyway, it's the people closest to me that matter and I've driven them all away. And where are my friends now? My so-called friends have fucked off to the next house party, leaving me with a hangover and an empty pit in my stomach.

It's crushing to achieve all your goals only to realise you don't actually want them. In confusion and distress, I look to my past to see where I went wrong and see now that I'd had what I wanted.

I'd had a little family with no money but time and space to write beautiful and fantastic words, necessary words. Now I've got money but no time and I've weakened my mind. I squandered my most precious gift.

So I take a last look at the land I love, toss the Old Fashioned into the grass, stick the .45 in my mouth and tell myself I'm being a hero.

(P.S. it's fiction, my friends x)