Hate editing… Editing hates you and your babies

I hate editing.

Do you hate editing? What’s an easy solution to get over the jitters about editing? What technique does HPPO use when self editing?

This answers none of those questions but it made me feel better and it’s true. If it’s true for you. Know you’re not out there alone. Even if you are like physically alone. We all draw from the same well spring and I hope you succeed beyond what that voice in your head says is possible.

I hate editing.

I hate self editing. I hate it even more because I should love it. I love becoming a better version of myself. HPPO version XL.002.G. Season 30 patch 4.3.

When I go back over my work from yesterday or a week ago or a year. It’s how I find those defects, correct them, and become better. But


I wonder is this what bulimics see when they look in the mirror during a binge. I see this ink that I spunked from my pen onto the page for your pleasure. In the morning lights crusty stains are staring back at me comparable to the incontinence ramblings of a defecating homeless man.

“Shit in the street left by him will be viewed by more people and have more value than what you’ve accomplished here.”

That voice can shut the fuck SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I’ve being fighting it for 11,240 days every single day going ten rounds or more.

Sometimes WWE style he gets to tag out with social peers, awards, “what my friends think.”, “cool story, bro” and Ronald Mcdonald

and the only one in my corner is myself and the god of Abraham. And like a true heel drop never tags in on my behalf.

Some days we go at it hard. Fight and Fight. Every word corrected a punch bag. Momentum starts to turn the fight. But just when I start to see the belt and the victory. I lose my footing or get hit with that there their they’re triple pairing dick jabs.

Amateur mistake. When did the rules change and this boxing match become a MMA snuggle fuck choking out my will power. “Paragraphs now break with spaces for scrolling moron.”

I curl up and cry. A grown ass man. A GROWN ASS man. Beaten down not by life, I live it rich and happy.

Beaten to tears not by lose, gratitude keeps all that at bay.

But even as I write this poetry. Tears Stream Free.

Beaten by a fucking semi-colon run up my nuts.

You should be better at this. And the last thing I hear before my psyche retreats fully into my fantasy world. Is laughter my doubts secure in the fact that weaknesses still resides in my composure, my work will never be what I want.


can never satisfy the artists need to expose others to their perfect vision. The crystal clear lake atop that Big Rock Candy Mountain.


I hate editing. It hates me back. But it’s necessary. I can not improve if I don’t.

I have to even seek the eyes of others to tell me you done fucked this up.


is my response. There was poetry in the original composition. You’re ignorant. You’re the problem. My mastery of the English language is parsecs greater than your degree and experience and reality.

When my bruises heal in the morning.

I’ll show them and while my hands are soft, pampered without callous, my ego is hard as stone.


Brittle as tempered glass.

Just the right point of pressure and my whole facade fades fumblefuck.

Tomorrow, I’ll be writing the last scene of the last chapter of issue three.

I’ve been looking forward to this since halfway through writing issue two.

But I need this little glory psyche up session to get ready for editing. After All I will be paying out of pocket for an editor this time around and “nothing hurts more than humiliation coupled with a little money loss.” -revolver.

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