The Writer’s Block

In any case, my many made-up stories had always told of a one-time fluency with gangster coke heads and albino junkies and nose bleeds and miniature glass vials stuck between my arse cheeks. In my many tales, I was the scum of the earth. This private gloom excited my audience, it fetched a perverse respect for me; even though I could not, for my mother's life, tell coke from baby powder.