A writers advice on life advice.

Far be it for a word-smith of my gold-covered plastic caliber to tell you what to do with your life.
Nobody ever fucking should. Yet there is no shortage of the preachers. Teachers, parents, draft-guy, TV-evangelists and life coaches. We're drowning in that shit. Life coach; how the hell does that work?
Do you call time-out your life to play a blue fourty two with a long throw down the center? How do you even qualify to be a life-coach? It can't be years and years of experience cause they all look like they're in their thirties. But then again, its not the years but the mileage that counts. Which has to be fucking huge in this case, or they're just ego-tripping narcisists that get off from telling people how to live their life.
Fuck that shit. Punch that dick. Buy yourself a beer for a job well done. Therapy complete.
There's no shortage of sheisters either, out to make a quick buck on any dumb fuck, if you pardon my dutch.
And I understand the dumb, I do. I understand his need to know. In this age of Google, any answer you need is right at your greedy little fingertips. How to cook, how to fight, how to fuck, there's a thousand answers offered a second, thousands of little factoids and quotable quotes all served up without any sense of context. Like showing up to a blind-date in a wedding gown.
Its a drive-through oracle, spouting incoherent shit that fill you up like burgers or Chinese food, these take-out truths spoil your brain, makes it fat and lazy and lets it rot in your skull. Any effort of thought grows immensely difficult on the count of you not using your brain. Don't rot away, thats my advice. Flex that shit, read a book. Do some puzzles, stretch your greys. Don't be such a fucking zombie. Join a gym, get hot, get laid, be happy.

But when it comes to the biggies, the Q's that truly matter and who shape your world, I'm sorry to say you're on your own.
So if you started reading this to get some ground-breaking advice I'm afraid your pissing up the wrong tree.
But rest assured, my rabid reader! Your half-wit writer won't let you stumble through this highway to hell into the headlights of life without a pointer or two.
Because there are things that I've found helps me find my bearings in this black hole of the universe known as society. But don't forget, its supposed to be hard.
Apply my advice sparingly, if ever, and on your own risk. I take no responsibility for your liver-failure, loss of friends or the biting-off of your dick.
That said, I present to you my few precious pointers that may aid you in your quest for that mythic meaning of life, love and the plot to Lost.

Fist, soak up the know. Make sure you learn from those who fucked up before you.
History is nothing but failure built on failure, with success simply a twinkling pearl in a cunty clam in a bay of pigs
Secondly, pack equal parts confidence and alcohol. Apply both freely in the face of great adversity or love.
Apply double in the face of their failure.
Remember friends! They are the bras of life. Wrapped around you, they lift you up, hold you fast, make you look better than you really are and they belong right next to your heart.
Be cynical with everything you hear,
but honest about everything you feel.
Don't worry about making sense,
let your heart and your dick take control now and then.
Sometimes a great night is worth a lousy month. Or twelve.
And most importantly, don't let any mirror-fapping narcisist set up the rules you're going to live by.
Even when he's me.

Thanks for your time. Bills in the mail.
Sincerely,

Lars Erik Volden