I was halfway through my masterpiece named "The tale of the stuffed Viper" which was an epic saga of love, lust, loss, found, baggage claim tickets, an ice cream scoop, and a hush butt plug set in exotic locales across this great country of ours (but mostly in Butte Montana)... Then my lucky mechanical pencil broke and the local repair shop declared it a total loss, so there it sits... abandoned and alone... just like the eponymous protagonist of the story.

2,363 pages of the Great American Novel and navel staring contest (that is actually the main focus of pgs 672-746)... just needing a middle, an ending, possibly some type of story structure, some consistency in the narrative voice, and maybe slight editing for gramurr and stuff. But, the experience is too raw and using some other writing instrument just feels wrong on so many levels after all of the shared effort and sacrifice that penny and I made (penny is what I called her as she scrolled out my magnificent prose... We won't discuss what I called the butt plug).

So, to answer the question... Nope, I never wanted to write a novel, it wanted to write and control me in the same way that all abusive lovers do (or at least the good ones). So, now that I am out of that relationship thanks to Penny's great sacrifice (and a ballpeen hammer), I am never going back. I prefer something less disruptively obsessive-compulsive in my life, like a nice heroin addiction...

Oooh, heroin addiction... that's a much better story bridge between how the heroine went from being a cocktail waitress at the mob-controlled "Italian Supper Club" in Doon, Iowa to a high priced Manhattan attorney than the alien abduction, anal probing knowledge implant I used in chaoter 63(f)... Fuck you Penny... I'm back bitches... where are my orange crayons?