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The Fart Of Fiction, No. 21

I'm neither here nor there. You won't find me in London or Burlington, Ontario. You'll find me in London, England. My two-week plan takes me back to my new home in Bollington to read to sheep. Good writers write every morning, drink a cup of Clipper tea, talk to sheep, and then get bored in a country with loads of castles. Just saying. Alright, I have no clue what I'm saying, but carry on. Keep calm, and I'll keep on residing in the UK; where it's business as usual with giant headphones and a hangover that won't go away. Trust me. I'm a writer, pleasure expert, and toilet connoisseur. Shit, now I've rambled and dribbled a long paragraph that should've examined the art of writing. Let me tell the fart jokes.


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