So I figure, why not join the rest of America, deep in debt, watching retirement bear down on me like a runaway train.
I'm coming to Phoenix for Thrillerfest. Screw the expense. Want to help? You can always contribute to what promises to be a crippling bar tab.
The kind people at ITW are comping my banquet ticket, because they want to witness, in person, the soul crushing blow when one of the other debut novelists takes home the award. Then they'll point and jeer, chanting
Loser Loser Loser.
I can live with that.
But, and I can't stress this enough, I hate PayPal. Seriously. I hate PayPal. I went to the site to pay my fee, with a credit card because I am an American, and they said my account was restricted because I hadn't OKed the most recent change in the Terms of Service, as if anyone except spammers had contacted me from PayPal about anything in the past year.
So I said, fine, where do I do that? I go to the TOS page and I've bought fucking homes with less legal bullshit. So I wade through it, my eyes glazing over, spending the better part of an hour, then I get to the end and THERE'S NO FUCKING PLACE TO OK THE TERMS OF SERVICE! I CAN'T FIND THE BUTTON. Help is no help. Contact is a lot like SETI, I send out messages and wait for signs of life. I keep circling back, doing it again and again, kicking serious OCD, until I'm now thinking of homicide and not the high-paying fictional kind.
So now I don't know what to do. Anyone at ITW who can take my credit card number? (Don't even try, Mr. Banks). Please, help me out here. I can't write a check because it will bounce higher than Mr. Jordan can jump. I can't get through to the Nazi fucks at PayPal. I am so screwed.
If you go to Phoenix and see sleeping in the lobby, do me a favor and slip me a cracker or two.
Really, writing the book was easier than booking this trip.