This is why we can’t have nice things…

Hi, I’m a full time author. I work my everloving ass off to keep you entertained. I earn enough from my books to keep a roof over my head but not enough to pay for things like the 35% tax I’m supposed to pay for those earnings, so I work a full time day job as shore security for the cruise ships in Seattle.

I spend forty hours a week subjecting myself to people – entitled people, that can afford such luxuries as going on a cruise, while I have weeks that my fiance and I can only afford Top Ramen for food. In fact, if it weren’t for my fiance, and his two full time jobs, yes, you read that right, two full time jobs, I wouldn’t even be here typing this at you right now. He pays the internet bill, along with the electric bill, for groceries, our health insurance, my phone bill, his phone bill, and the bill for putting gas in my Jeep to get us all over hell and back for the four jobs we hold between us.

Are you getting the picture yet?

We live in Seattle, we hold four jobs between us, and we still, sometimes, can only afford Top Ramen for dinner.

I am an author. I don’t make shit. So why are you stealing from me?

You heard me. You, who solicit openly on Facebook for pirate sites to download the books I poured my blood, sweat, tears and even money I didn’t have to begin with into producing for you for a mere pittance in return, a whole $2.70 cents a copy – WHY ARE YOU STEALING FROM ME?

Why are you making it harder for me to pay my rent and utilities. Why are you making it so my fiance felt he had to take that second full time job, just to keep us going? Why are you making it impossible for me to earn a wage at what I love to do so that I can keep doing it for you?

Tell me, please, why do I even write anything for your selfish, entitled ass in the first place? You. You are why we can’t have nice things. Why if my PC quits, that it will more than likely be all she wrote. Why I’m so tired, and in so much pain when I come home, that I haven’t touched the keys in days. Why I might be hit by a car while I’m directing traffic at that day job to afford to write in the first place ensuring that I will never write again…

You. Thief. Pirate.

You suck.


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