Chapter One: A Pizza Party (fiction theory)

DOT DOT DOT…I will say this: My memory is up there with the best of folks who’ve ever lived. Now being able to somewhat match the prose with ideas is interesting. I can really have fun with writing, very much like how people watch movies once in a while I can let go and the fingers just go and dance around whatever you call human history. It’s a fine line and sometimes it’s fun to cross  The editing is the hard part but for today I’ll put that on hold. It’s the Last day of summer. 95 out. Back then gas was a little over a dollar. I was driving around in a White Pontiac Bonneville we took to Canada and Florida and instead of… I’m not sure what happened, but instead of the blue ceiling there was an american flag hanging down from the inside part of the roof. I don’t know why but it was annoying. The flag always came un-pinned and  got in the way when I was driving.  I got a couple running red light tickets because of this. And Super drag, In the Valley of Dying Stars… Just one of many compact discs that were spinning and have since all been stolen, some tens of thousands of dollars, theft, crime, gone forever, taken by those females called, damn ex girlfriends. But wait… Before the trips and the smuggling of pet gerbils in trunks across lines on made-up maps, well that month it was September.

I was in the good ol’ merican university. Let the loans pile and wherever in Wyoming the checks just came, and beer, it was everywhere. Actually being a decent student well that day I grabbed my Polaroid and snapped the fear lined out to the highway trying to get some gas. It started by the back door. I was smoking and already missed non western worlds. So be it. I guess I’ll go. I didn’t know what was going on yet but we weren’t at war and the recession hadn’t hit yet either, so everything was alright.  I was a freshman in college and watched the whole thing eating square cafeteria pizza with  my intro to political science teacher who just so happened to be from Iraq. Fate brings us here. That doesn’t mean a thing. But it sure is a good story. Anybody want to give me a job? The rest will be typed and I’ll get it out to the masses within a year. I’ve Edited my soul away and I’m tired and broke, but I’m taking the day off and being a writer and typing on the typewriter and going to write a classic gonzo journalistic piece about nine eleven.(Below is an interesting read. I’m not a political agent so please don’t associate me into a block of crab meat. I’m beyond the savagery. Writer Rule: Sometimes you have to get cocky.)

why the gulf war did not happen

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