The first thing I sold was my heart. Well, I suppose that's inaccurate, or rather, it isn't the full story. Let's start over. I didn't read the terms of service. Before you come at me, call me an idiot, let me ask you something. Did you read the terms of service? Maybe you're reading this on paper and you never saw the terms of service. Congress is gearing up to make sure paperbacks and hardcovers (what little remains) include the ToS, but maybe you somehow got your lucky hands on an actual piece of paper. If you didn't get that treasured piece of parchment, you're probably reading this on a little screen. Maybe it's a black screen, maybe it's a white one, it doesn't matter. There's a good chance you just skipped right over the terms of service, so I don't want to hear anything about how stupid I am.
I didn't notice right away. Maybe I did. I don't know. I sold my confidence sometime after I sold the memory of selling my heart, or maybe I rented it? Okay, I'm off track again. You get it, right? I sold my focus too, but don't fret your pretty head—I bought a bottle of 2007 Millennial Focus just for this. This will be my last publication. I'm afraid that I've lost my mind, or at least peace of it. Get it? I haven't sold my sense of humor. They're only offering thirty dollars per month, or a one-time payment of five hundred dollars for my particular brand of humor. If I hold onto it long enough, I think the value may double. But like I said; this will be my last publication.
Before I get into it, I'm contractually obligated to drop the sponsor, so...
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Are you still there? Alright, good. Sorry about that. You know how it goes; everybody's got bills to pay. I'm still selling off the memories of all the blue hedgehog fanfics I'd been commissioned to write over the last few decades. The point being that giving a little blurb and shouting out a product or a justified war crime here or there isn't nearly as stressful as figuring out the exact anatomy of—, you know what? I said I wouldn't do this. I said I wouldn't talk about it anymore. I got a penny for selling the memory of his name for a reason. I sold it to some poor chump with tired sunken eyes that clearly needed it more than I did. Wanted it. I just wish I sold him everything. A rose without a name is still a rose, and five thousand pages of smut is still smut... Yes, I sold most of my knowledge of Shakespeare. No, I didn't sell his name. You've got a basic understanding of economics, right? Supply and demand?
I'm going to the movies tonight. I think I used to like doing that. They're premiering an adaptation of me tonight. I never watch them on purpose, but last month, during a stint of writer's block, I ventured out for some inspiration. I bought two tickets to First Kiss. Everyone had been pestering me to watch the film. They said it would be life-changing, inspirational, but to me, it was a slog. The main character, a middle school boy, was immature, lazy, sloppy, and off-putting. Critics were saying it was one of the most remarkable introspective experiences of our lifetimes. I scoffed through the entire film, muttering under my breath at the glorification of juvenile romance. Heck, half the movie was literally under a pink filter. It wasn't until the credits rolled, and I saw my own name first and center that I realized I produced this shitshow.
On the way home, I bought that bottle of focus I was telling you about. I couldn't afford the bottle of determination, so I figured that absolute disgust of seeing my First Kiss would have to suffice for proper motivation. I couldn't afford that either, but at least I wasn't dumb enough to sell all of mine yet. Just let me polish off a bit of this focus, and I'll tell you how we got to this point. I do mean 'we', by the way. You're as much a part of this as I am. I wouldn't even be in this fucking mess if it weren't for you. If you think I want to spend my night gagging on a bottle that cost me more than my divorce, well, maybe you're right. I think my therapist would've said something like that, but I sold her advice a long time ago.
I'm told I have fans, but I couldn't fathom why. Based on the reviews I see online, you're probably hoping this is a book about what my father did to my mother, or a compilation of my wet dreams, or the time I was legally declared dead for thirteen minutes. WeGo bought the rights to My Dad The Demon. It'll be out next year I think. Wet Summer releases next week. Thirteen Minutes was shelved. The publishers thought it was too short, and no movie studio was interested in adapting something so short. Unfortunately, I can't afford to buy it back right now, but that's okay. This will be my last publication.
It's kicking in now; the focus. Yes. I remember it now. I hadn't sold the memory. I was adamant about keeping it, even though it pained me, and I only hung on to the memory to keep it bottled and buried deep down. I remember gliding to the front door, abandoning my laptop as the doorbell rang, eager to escape my writer's block.
She was beautiful. Auburn hair that glowed red as it shifted, green eyes that seemed to pierce my very own browns. I knew from the moment she parted her perfect lips that she was SoulSucker.