Status Updates From A Series of Pained Facial E...

This could be the beginning of a literary revolution of nothing at all. Probably nothing at all. It's too seamlessly embedded in social media culture. It's good though. Great, even.

The audio version of this book will just be the sound of heavy breathing followed by the sound of muffled sob-bing followed by a muzak version of that one Adele song then repeated to fill up several cassette tapes ’cause I’m old-school like that.

Heard you been talking mad shit behind my back—why don’t you man-up and say it to my Facebook?

Accidentally hit a homeless person when I swung open the dumpster lid. He poked his head out from behind the dumpster and said, “Next time check to see if anyone’s back here when you do that.” I asked him why he was back there. I was kind of pissed. He said, “Got nowhere else to go,” and then laughed really loud. “Oh, okay,” I said, like his answer made total sense. Then he laughed some more. [Cue Seinfeld theme]

Sure, you can turn yourself into a character meme from a popular franchise that vaguely resembles you but can it replicate your feelings of inadequacy, your psychic terrors?

Recently Added in Horror: Any Living Thing Just Now Born Into the Void of Existence

Does anything cool happen when you reach a certain number of tweets or do those feelings of emptiness and crippling self-hate remain till death?

Pulled myself away from the Internet long enough to do the dishes. Now I’m rewarding myself by going back on the Internet. [SPOILER ALERT: The Internet is still a collection of varying opinions about some actor I’ve never heard of playing a character I don’t care about in the new season of some show I’ve never watched.]

Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want So I Can Eventually Change My Mind and Want Something Else Then Repeat Process until Death

Seeing The Undertaker lock Ultimate Warrior inside a casket on WWF Superstars of Wrestling scarred me as a child and so I had to eventually become goth/industrial to cope with those feelings.

Books are like people: there are too many and most are garbage but we keep producing them because maybe a really amazing one will turn up though it’s doubtful as fuck.

ATTN writers who publish their playlists: Not only does your book put people to sleep but so do those Bon Iver tracks you listened to while writing it.

You know you hate life when going on an emotionally and financially devastating book tour seems like it’d be a fun/refreshing alternative to whatever rut you’re in.

Obituary: He/she is survived by his/her Want-to-Read/Currently-Reading Goodreads shelf

Book launch party where you and the audience literally try launching copies of your book into a garbage can placed at the far end of the room using a Medieval-style catapult contraption.

You hope to one day publish a book implanted with a sound chip that when opened plays a 20-second clip of “Ya’ll Ready for This (Space Jam Theme).”

Dreamed that whenever I tweeted, an audio clip of Steve Urkel saying “Did I do that?” would play and after a while it got really annoying so I deleted my Twitter account and became an honorary Spice Girl under the name Tumblr Spice and then I died.

The fact that I haven’t had alcohol in 2 months and have drank tea instead of coffee for the past 2 weeks makes me think I’ve somehow Jacques Cousteau’d a new depth to the ocean that is my self-hate.

You may find yourself binge-watching random YouTube videos of Beavis and Butthead binge-watching random music videos, and you may ask yourself, “Well… how did I get here?”

If you live in a college town, no matter what year it is, you will occasionally walk by a group of young kids hanging out on a porch who look either like the band Pavement circa-1993 or Gregg Allman circa-1973.

Doing a keg stand and then bragging about how you only did it ironically.

Dreamed I took a “What ’90s Alt-Rock Grrrl Are You?” Internet quiz and a picture of Linda Perry’s Dr. Seuss hat from the 4 Non Blondes “What’s Up” music video was the result I was given.

My parents packed up and headed to Georgia, leaving me in their empty apartment until the lease ran out. I was twenty-two years old and had nowhere to go. I didn’t want to move to Georgia, so I’d go out to the bars at night hoping to woo a girl into letting me move in with her. This wasn’t actually my intention but it gave me something productive to do besides just drinking.

I like the part in My Cousin Vinny when Joe Pesci shoots the busboy and everybody’s all. “Why’d you do that, you crazy motherfucker?” and Pesci is all whatever about it, so they kill him and dump his body in some cornfield. Pretty heavy. By the way, I never saw My Cousin Vinny.

I’d be good at conventions ’cause I can sit at a table and want to die just like the best of them.

According to scientists, people who share inspirational quotes via the Internet are less intelligent. However, scientists are the ones going to hell, so....