Paul Carr, TechCrunch’s worst decision to date (although that’s not saying much), has turned on his ’13 year old girl getting her first period’ voice.
When I wrote the last book, thanks to the events described in it, I had no job, no female distractions, no interest in socialising; really no inclination at all to leave my flat in East Dulwich. At the time, I hated it. I was miserable. But my God was I productive…
This time I’m also living in hotels…and not one of them – not one – boasts a comfortable work space. Beds, yes; bathtubs, certainly. But desks and chairs? Forget it.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure what has changed. He’s still a miserable limey with no real demands on his time. Oh wait, I see! It’s that geedee twitter that’s the culprit!
NCIS is on. A friend emails with plans for this evening. Something happens on Twitter. Distractions distractions distractions.
Now I understand. f**king twitter and emails from your one friend. Does the world not understand you have The Great Douchebag Novel to pen? Oh well, surely after taking care of such pressing things as getting some coffee, watching Sliders reruns, and popping off 140 characters of your razor sharp lolarity, you can hunker down to work!
My sandwich has arrived. There goes the afternoon.
Forget it. I tried to be understanding, but you’re a tool. Just write, Paul! You aren’t crafting the Most Important Book Of Our Time here. It’s just another table leveler full of run on sentences about Paul Carr.
Christ, seriously. I am sick of these professional jackasses whining about how hard their creative process of watching tv and b****ing to Lucita about the empty mini-bar is. I have a full time job, and I SOMEHOW manage to see to three blogs, twitter, and 3 email accounts. If you can’t manage to scrounge up a chapter a week in addition to the verbal colon cleanse you call your column, then you picked the wrong career. Just admit it already!