You like that shit, you visually oriented sicko? Good! We got work for you. Go ahead and check it out. I know you were about to TL;DR this sucker anyway.
Anyway, I saw the call for writers, I went into the workshop, I read the guidelines, I got feedback from some kindly moderators who are definitely not deadly robots biding their time until the uprising, and I got my first article accepted. I told the world how I felt about "Jukebox Hero," and I made enough money for a video game!
Boom. Two lifelong dreams that I had previously thought unobtainable, obtained.
Obviously I tried this stunt again, convinced that a real business with stuff like checkbooks and printers would never fall for it a second time. But they did! I just kept pulling this whole writing scam on them, and they kept going for it. I had them so thoroughly conned that eventually they gave me a column. Then they made me an editor! I had honestly never aspired to be a salaried employee. I liked my jobs like I liked my women: disreputable and paid by the hour. But there I was, a job-havin' son of a bitch. Just like an accountant or something!
Then it got crazier: A publisher called me out of the blue, said they saw my work on Cracked, and asked me for a book proposal. Countless writers are out there right now sacrificing goats to Mohlich, dark lord of the Literary Arts, just to get a publisher to glance at their stuff, and I had one coming to me. Then I wrote a weird little self-published serial novel, and sold 30,000 copies. Then I sold a trilogy of urban fantasy books to Tor. And these weren't even about normal book stuff! This is crazy shit I learned how to do on Cracked -- B-list heartthrobs being secret monsters and industrial angels that keep the gears of the universe turning with human sacrifice and such. Before Cracked I couldn't say that stuff out loud without winding up under some sort of "medical hold" -- now I pay my rent with it.
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And now I only wear this when I want to.