I whored my hoard of hordes of words, and it made me feel like a pimp.
You see, words, they're my bitches. I tell them to do what I want and they do it. I say form a sentence and they ask, "simple or complex?"
Their paltry pay is nothing to the dividends I see. I'm part of a compendium, a writer's mafia as it were. It's called my publishing house.
It's a den of some of the filthiest little words you will ever see. Sex. Booze. Drugs. Magic. Racism. Sexism. Perversion. Anything illicit. Just read Welsh, read some Harry Fucking Potter.
I whore out these words. I make them work for my money.
I am an author, baby. You got something to say?
P.I.M.P. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UDApZhXTpH8
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