hyper\real fiction 4: the ghostwriter

i used to sleep on chairs.  best sleep ever.

in waking life, i’d just drift through rooms and count the money.  go on the computer, write stuff with cool words people liked, like ‘LOL rekt” and then count the dogecoins I made per word.

I was a cheap prostitute as far as words per dogecoin was:  my rate?  1 per word.

but I wrote 70 words per minute.  averaged out at 35 while brainstorming.

twenty one cents an hour.  my job paid 10$/hour to sit in front of computers and talk people through their issues.

twenty one cents, at the going exchange rate.  35 x 60 = 2100.

now imagine if the exchange rate went to 0.01$/doge?  Twenty one dollars an hour at the future rate.

But… that’s not gonna happen anytime soon, right?

So, 2100 doge to write whatever.  hard-earned.  After four hours of doing what I love, I could go buy some candy.

So, back to the chairs.

I’m technically homeless.  Well, not really; I do have places to call shelter.

The thing is, the places in which I stay don’t actually belong to me…

… and that’s okay.  Let someone else take care of the headache of maintenance bills.

I work for my family.

I work hard.

Lots of nuances to this line of work, many which are not readily apparent to those not familiar.

But the lives you touch, especially in the age of ubiquitous Internet?



I can’t let you know who I am,

they would kill me.

It’s really cool to live in a city like this,

you can be everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Heard of a book called ‘Ishmael’ by Daniel Quinn,

hope to read it someday.

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