intro to manuscript submission

If it can be said that you have already heard this spiel before…
Then it can be known that you never got sick in hearing it.

I have lived a sick & depraved life, but am blessed by grace in times of misfortune. Which is to say, I just won’t fucking die.
I have recently spent some longer than usual stays in psychiatric hospitals, and in spite of all the so-called therapy I still want nothing more than to be heard, and stop hearing all the “answers”. I didn’t request answers. I merely want to display my criminal narcissism. If you’ll only hear me out, I’ll paint the images that make up the disfigured galleries to the various sides of me.
I have been on both sides of the coin, physical, sexual, pharmaceutical, and metaphysic assault. I have been to both jail and biblical seminary. From faking my way into Honors classes to selling ecstasy to those yuppie fucks @ highway robbery price.
I’ve been to Tijuana bars and brothels, fucking my way to a cold Corona I never found. I’ve sung praise songs to church youth groups while having sex with ministers’ daughters & getting high on Puerto Rican beaches during mission trips. I have slain virgin daughters, pinning them against bathroom mirrors, displaying a lust they will never forget. And, I’ve had the shit beaten out of me for drunkenly forcing myself into forbidden situations.
I know exactly what it’s like to blow a quarter mil inheritance and have nothing to show. I’ve been used and a user, doing anything money can. My most vivid dreams, mostly nightmares of the debauchery of those times, are my remaining possessions, and I will never give them up cheaply.
True, there may be nothing new under the sun, but @ 27 years old, I have most things completed on Life’s Checklist. And now, @ 27, I’ve had it all stripped away. Once again, I have nothing to show. Progress a little further my possessions are these: Whiskey-rotted teeth with a halitosis breath, deceptively charming looks and demeanor, lost loves abandoned quickly as prescribed in the evacuation plan, and the smarts afforded me by these half-empty pill bottles and attending a handful of classes high.
So, if you’re willing to lend an ear, and a health plan that can afford me cheap replacements for these half-empty bottles of pills… If you’re able to help me sort through these words with a style that mimics Kundera’s sight for the underlying, base importance, and help me find my one hundred-millionth difference from you, from them… maybe something can mean anything out of this.
Then you can maybe help me receive the stage I am worthy of to parade my true, inner-imposter. I’m the shattered mosaic portrait of Dorian Grey; so let me make that clear. I am proof you can be the whole host of villainous people and not be able to afford the rite to die. If you’ll only let me whisper my tale, and you watch to see which ears prick up to hear my Seroquel-enhanced speech. Or, if you could see how the eyes of strangers will dart around behind pages to see if my life has pinpointed them guilty of likewise deception. If you only knew who was out there fucking your neighborhood daughters. Then maybe the book I made will be one that everyone purchases, but cannot bear the strength demanded to read.
I want to hear Stevenson words echo into this time.
“I barely finished it, it nearly finished me.”
I want to shake the floors of mine, and your, memory in the way a madman shakes a dead geranium. Lips seething with bile and drool, eyes vicious and flesh haggard. I want to shake this will to die, and speak about the many things you should never want to do with life.