The Secrets Of My Success

Lately I've been encountering a lot of fantastic people with one thing in common; a burning desire to know how I do it. So I decided to write a piece explaining my secrets so that you can also do it.

Lately I've been encountering a lot of fantastic people with one thing in common; a burning desire to know how I do it. So I decided to write a piece explaining my secrets so that you can also do it.

I like to start my mornings with a spot of self-loathing. This can take me anywhere from five minutes to twenty four hours and is usually done in bed amongst my seven pillows and my emaciated duvet. After indulging in some me time, I like to deprive myself of food until I have finished reading all of the Showbiz news on a UK website that can't be named because the name itself distracts me. I am blessed with the ability to be on this website and also be totally unaware of the speed at which my life is passing me by. If I'm in a particularly good mood I will re-read pieces I've already read to see if there are any secret messages for me from the devil. If there are, I make a note of them. I don't hastily reply there and then via the comments box like some people do. Instead I record them in my Devil Dispatches Diary and deal with them when I am feeling particularly miserable and up to the task.

It's then time for food. I am very fussy about what I put in my mouth and I can only eat animals or vegetables that I know have suffered at some stage in their life. After this I like to meditate where I sit with my eyes closed and spend about fifteen to twenty minutes lambasting myself for not being able to clear my head and focus properly.

I like to follow this up with a shower and wash away the sleeping tablet induced nightmares from the night before. Sometimes I sing whilst doing this, sometimes I don't. It all depends on how much I screamed during the night. Feeling rejuvenated and as effervescent as a soluble vitamin in a puddle, I feel like I'm ready to take on the world, really slowly. It is usually around this time that I like to fist pump and depending on how hectic my schedule is I might quickly kiss my biceps.

At this point I am ready to get down to business. I click into GMAIL and I don't check my emails. When I am done, I start my writing on Twitter. Tweeting involves typing words; writing is typing words therefore tweeting is writing. On Twitter I try to make someone laugh which results in me making their day and in return makes me feel like I've saved a life. Usually my own. I know I'm done writing on Twitter when I feel there is sufficient drool on my laptop to put me at risk of electrocuting myself. I go back into Gmail, don't check my emails, resulting in email dread that can only be subdued by either checking said emails or rocking back and forth aggressively on the linoleum kitchen floor until my mobile phone rings.

If it's my mother phoning I won't answer. Ninety per cent of the time it's my mother. If it's anyone else I won't answer to them either. I hate the sound of my own voice so I can only imagine how it makes my nearest and dearest feel, so I like to protect them by not subjecting their ears to my voice. I prefer communicating through the medium of text message. Texting involves words, so tweets and texts make up my final word count at the end of the day.

I then might spend the guts of an hour staring at the neighbour's barking dog and fake shooting it with my fake gun. At this stage, after months of practicing with my toy gun I reckon if I had a real gun I could shoot the dog's larynx right out of his neck, without so much as leaving a scratch on his trachea and epiglottis.

Next I go for my walk. I love to swing my arms, suck fresh air deep into my lungs and go through my hefty list of regrets, adding a few new ones to each walk. It's not the walking that keeps me in shape; I burn most of my calories by jumping to conclusions.

If I have a stand up gig I go and perform, putting my confidence in the hands of strangers. If I have to meet people I go and perform, putting my confidence into the hands of these people. At the end of each night as I lie amongst my pillows, satisfied, waiting for a sleeping tablet to kick in, I blame my parents for everything once again and I drift off into a restless slumber.

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