The bar has become crowded. There's a woman sitting alone behind you wearing a dark green hoodie. Her chair is close to yours. Too close. It's weird. Maybe she's listening to us. You sip your beer, then you apply some lip gloss. You're not eating your veggie burger because that last cigarette put your stomach off. I say:

"I can imagine that there are people who would pay money to read what I write. But I can imagine there are a greater number of people who would pay money not to read what I write. But either way, it's not about money. It's just about finding these two groups. And making the former all wet and inspiring great rage in the latter, ya know?"

You look pale and not well, but you manage a laugh. You touch your hand to your forehead. You say:

"You don't inspire great rage in anybody."

"I know. And I hate myself for that."

You start to take a bite of your burger, then you put it back on your plate. You say:

"Look, the main problem is one of inertia."

I dip some greasy fries in mustard and put them in my mouth. I chew, and I say:

"Inertia. Yes. Because people will wake up in the morning and just read what they normally read, won't they? Or they'll read what Oprah or NPR tells them to read. They'll read that dose of bad news that comes in the paper or on the screen. Or they won't read at all. Just surf aimlessly, or watch that box, or follow that twitter."

"Or fuck themselves."

"Right. Or fuck themselves. Have a wank in the shower. Then eat that cereal and swallow that juice and go to work. Or go to the doctor, or walk their dog, or teach their kid how to use the potty, or bring their car for that oil change, or any number of other things a person does with their day other than read what I write."

You scoot your chair back and it bumps into the woman sitting behind you. You say:

"I'm gonna go vomit."

"Okay. Can I eat your fries?"

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