Prick is my first book, started for National Novel Writing Month, finished later. To be quite honest, it is a sort of low brow piece of meta-fiction, as in the subject or topic of the book is the book's writing, and the book is simply my day to day: written often in the food court of a dying mall where silver haired people ate cheeseburgers with glazed over eyes; typed late into the night after getting home late from work, after a day of literary theory and cleaning up junk at the behest of managers with hooves just so Santa and his unholy denizens of hell will return to help our year end sales; written at a time when I really didn't have any friends, just one self-professed "degenerate" drinking whiskey while I drank iced tea; written over the years where I would feel compelled by women, but my past, my diagnosis, my economic status, and my morbid introversion just left me tongue tied with my wishes, my longings in mute chaos, as I would pepper my book with descriptions of porn scenes.