On careers, death, and writing what you want

This weekend's links resemble a warm but sometimes sad hug. Also, there's a cat.

Goooooood weekend, readers. I spent last weekend hanging out at my aunt’s house while I looked after her cat, Harley. It was a chill time. I ate all my aunt’s cheese and onion crisps, went for five-mile walks by the sea (I made that sound plural, but it was not), and watched movies I would otherwise have to pay for – Little Women, Sonic the Hedgehog, A Quiet Place Part II – which were all excellent. Even Sonic. Especially Sonic. Oh, and I also watched Wonder Woman 1984.

In less-good animal news, a giant (medium-sized) hairy spider darted out from behind my feet while I was on the toilet yesterday. It is now trapped inside my bagless hoover. It is alive. It is moving. So now I have to buy a new hoover, after I have yeeted this one into the sun.

I’ve enjoyed a giant-spiderless life since I moved to the city ten years ago, save for one gargantuan monster who briefly visited my old Victorian cellar-kitchen. I am not happy about this will-also-enter-modern-first-floor-flats development. But the less said about spideys the better, unless someone has better advice than yeeting my hoover into the sun, in which case I am all ears. I will not entertain feats of bravery or heroics, however. Your suggestion has to be realistic.

Moving on. Here’s the stuff you actually came here for:

Good shit o’ mine (New on Clattermouth)

Making plans for making money
It’s been a month since I started this newsletter, and somehow I still haven’t done anything except start this newsletter. First of all, why has the time passe……
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How cool is this little widget thingy? No, really. I can’t decide. It would suck if there were several of them listed, right? Good thing I only wrote one article this week, and how dare you suggest I am using the widget thingy to make this section look bigger. Outrageous. Anyway, in this week’s column (shall I start calling it a column? for the préstîgè?) I told my paying subscribers all about my plans to reboot my writing business and ramp up my income again.

Good shit that ain’t mine

Take it breezy and eat some chocolate this weekend,

This edition of Clattermouth is brought to you by four hours of sleep and the copious editing-out of jokes involving dubious wordplay, mathematical symbols, and general dumbfuckery.