ALL MATERIAL, CONTENT, AND RIGHTS ARE RESERVED SOLELY BY JOSEPH R. REEVES. ANY UNAUTHORIZED USE OF SUCH CONTENT OR MATERIAL IS GROUNDS FOR LEGAL PROSECUTION, AND PROBABLY AN ASS WHOOPING AS WELL. DON'T FUCK WITH MY WORK.
So let me just lay this out for you people right away, before you get too deep into the thing. I want you all to know exactly how things are gonna be, cause if theres one thing I won’t tolerate- it’s the mostly worthless criticism of the so-called well-read. The OVER-educated, OVER-medicated, OVER-analytical, and oh so typical- middle aged, been there, done that, how are the kids, Sunday brunch, news at ten then go to bed- type mentality that insists upon the one-way persuit of mundane existence, and the anti-achievement of normality. I really don’t give a flying fucksock if you think my sentences are too long, my grammar is incorrect, or any other such literary concern. I can just see the way you furrow your brow when I use self-invented terms such as “fucksock,” and guess what- I don’t care about that none either/ neither/ nor do I care about critics, reviews, or crackerjack boxes.
You must understand here, that I do not wish to piss you people off- in fact, quite the opposite is true. My aim is to write you a novel. Not just any novel either, but in fact- the last great american novel. Hell, I’d even go so far as to say that I want you to enjoy the thing thoroughly. This is why I feel it is necessary for me to assert myself here right now as “The Author,” of this story. If you think you can write a book more suitable to your literary needs, then get off your ass and write it. If not, then allow me to remind you of your humble existence as “Reader” in my story, and allow me to advise you to stop asking so many damn questions.
That being said, I will lastly inform you that I am not consistent by any one stretch of the word, and as a result, neither is my life. As a result of that reality, my writing is not consistent either, and as a result of that tendency- I will write as freely as I wish, with little concern for conventions, formalities, consistencies, or anything else that I “The Author,” deem to be un-interesting and/or inhibiting of the truly incredible task that it will be to illustrate this triumphant pursuit of the American dream as it silmutaneously exists somewhere over the rainbow between my id, idium, and ego; my notebook, my brothers, the cosmos; peeling vintage bumper-stickers worn to the point of no political affiliations, the itch at the tip of my nut-sack, and a burned out television set flickering nixons ghostly image enjoying a nice glass of ovaltine.
Above and beyond all, this story will be composed with the intellect, wit, and ability of a novelist; the creativity, passion, and ambition of a poet; the honesty, curiousity, and deviance of a child; and most of the time- the vernacular of a hoodlum.
Heres to the last cowboys, and the last american dreams.