We all like to think we'll get rich off a boy wizard.

So who the fuck am I? Why do I deserve your threadbare attention span that could be better utilised watching cute animal videos or porno… or animal porno? KIDDING. Don’t be one of those guys. So your attention, why do I deserve it? I’ll get to that. But the origin story is I’m an aspiring screenwriter with a questionable google browser history. 

AND guess what? 

I've decided to start a blog. Why? Don't really know. Something about having an 'online presence' whatever the fuck that means. Words for an imaginary audience. I feel like writing a blog is kind of like going to see a fortune-teller. You know it’s hollow bullshit but you’re still comforted by the outcome. Having words out there in the stratosphere, surely someone will read it and think I’m a clever bastard and hire me. Like there is a fat cat producer sitting in his ivory tower trolling the internet for sexy blogs so he can hire the writers. Not likely. He’s too busy profiteering off our stupidity and hiring white actors to play ethnic roles and paying women less than men. Can I get a high five my liberal friends? 

We all like to think we'll get rich off a boy wizard. We're attracted to the romance of a down and out writer, creating his or her story on napkins in a bar surrounded by blue-collar workers drowning their sorrows in amber liquid on their lunch breaks. We cling to the idea that if we’re good enough we’ll seep through the cracks like red wine on a tiled floor. Our talent will demand your attention and spread like an Australian bush fire. I just need my chance. The reality is the minority make it on shear talent alone. The majority give the better blow jobs. You know what I’m saying? 

So where does that live me? Up shit creek without a paddle choking to death in a barrel full of cocks. I live in Perth, Western Australia. I literally couldn’t be further away from the City of Angels. But words transcend boundaries right? I mean, I can be thankful I don’t live in the middle-east or China. They arguably have more boundaries for people of the outspoken variety. I mean, there are still countries in the world where you could find yourself on the end of a rope if you’re not careful with how you choose to express yourself.

But there is still fear. Always fear. Will I offend someone? Will someone think less of me? Will I embarrass myself or my loved ones with my words? And let us not forget the noise. So much noise. Our days are filled with it. Soundless noise. Memes about memes. Photos taken from YouTube videos posted on Instagram shared on Facebook and tweeted on Twitter. A traffic accident on mute. Companies like Buzzfeed making money off where our mouse or trackpad points. Links that are the digital equivalent of driving past a four-car pile up and being unable to turn away. But the worst part is we all fucking know this. We buy gossip rags and giggle when asked why we want to contribute to a gutter trash society. I mean, like, I need something to read on the train okay? And trust me, this isn’t supposed to be preachy; there’s enough of that on city street corners. I’m just trying to describe the sound to the customer who is hard of hearing.

Why the fuck would I want to add to it? This noise. This candy coated cyanide being handed out on the playground. Because like every other wanker with a wi-fi connection and a keyboard I think I’ve got something to say. To be honest I’m tired of caring about what I should and shouldn’t do. I find myself disagreeing with so much verbal diarrhoea on my Facebook feed every morning, but I force myself to suck it up like some kind of human waste vacuum cleaner. Friends and acquaintances who form opinions and hold values they learn from crackpots with YouTube channels. Family members who live via soundbites and hold their false ideals to their breasts like babes with small pox. The noise. The fucking noise.

Geez, sorry about that. Got a little bit ranty there. I’m like a broken bathroom tap which won’t stop dripping. I’m trying to talk about truth and my search for it. Not just in writing but in life. In my conversations and daily interactions with humans. I’m trying to understand what makes us scratch the mosquito bite. Why we get so angry when that FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT does 10 under the speed limit. Why we’re still so afraid of sex; and I don’t mean the type sold to us from photoshopped mannequins on billboards. And most importantly, why we’re so afraid of being offended. 

Back to why I deserve your precious time. The truth is I don’t. Your life would probably be better spent jerking off or having your fifth coffee of the day. All I can promise is a good time. A date that ends with a romantic peck on the cheek. I’ll be your last drink before drunkenness overtakes. So what to expect? A little something for everyone; even Grandma. Some words, some musings, some stories, some anecdotes, some recurring characters, cold opens and lead outs. More noise. Why not turn it up to 11?

However, my advice is, if you’re one of the three people who will likely read my words that I hope to release on a weekly basis and you’re easily offended; stop reading now. 

Oh, and eat shit and die.  

Love Aaron
May 2016