Oh Goddamnit

Oh Goddamnit.

God.
Damn.
It.

Just got the email from the goddamn literary magazine.

The winner of the naming contest is...The Cool Side Of The Pillow.

I shit you not. The Cool Side Of The Pillow.

The Cool Side Of The Motherfucking Pillow.


Goddamnit.

I don't know if I can, in good conscience, work for a publication with such a stupid fucking name. I don't think I can even write for them. I'd rather leave essays under rocks around town than have them published under that idiotic piece of shit name.


Salt in the wound: I was foolish enough to mention a passing willingness to work on advertising in my application, so I am now Advertising Manager for this shit-rag. I think I may have to resign that particular position because I cannot stand our fucking name, and I think our ads might have to include it. And I am not, I repeat, I am not going to tape a single goddamned flier to a single goddamn wall. I also do not plan to spend my time begging local businesses to by ads in a magazine with such a bad name.

GODDAMNIT.

ON THE OTHER HAND, I could abuse my position and sabotage the magazine like a straight gangster. Just have some very neat-looking ads that fail to mention who we are or what we do. Also, destroy our printing press.

Fucking A. I should just start my own fucking magazine. I'll call it Pug Fancy. Gonna be great.

Fuck.