I have a confession or two to make. And it’s not easy to admit them, but here goes:
I am the worst email copywriter on the planet, or as I prefer to say, the whirld. Those who say otherwise are full of bullonie.
I can’t spell. I can’t sing. I can’t even write without using apostrophes.
I claim to have gone into semi-retirement… for years upon years. But the fact is I’ve never taken a single second off since my early 20’s, and I’m nothing but a pauper pissing into hurricane force winds.
Worst of all, I haven’t made a single sale in almost 40 years, and no one but me is counting. I haven’t made millyuns from what I do, or teach, or proclaim. Nor do I ever have a shot at doing so.
The udder day, I was reading Ben Settle’s newsletter, and he wrote that everyone making a living from email owes me a debt of gratitude, or something along those lines. He says that I’m the guy who paved the way for the entire industry.
That is absolutely not true.
I’ve done no one, and I mean no one, any favors, nor do I accept any.
Truth is I don’t even know where my next meal is going to come from. I am contemplating making a new cardboard sign to showcase at stoplights throughout the city, but my whitish Irish skin can’t take the heat. So I’m left to sit in my fake leather lazyboy the remainder of the day, drinking my sorrows away… but then again, I can’t afford whisky, even the Irish kind, spelled with an ‘e.’
What a shitty, pity, itty bitty life I get to live.
And yet, I have the stones to send out emails telling y’all to get my products or to subscribe to my Zen Mastery newsletter. Shame on me.
I’m a joke. And a bad one at that.
I wish I could be like everyone else, but I definitely don’t fit in, so I guess the fetal position will have to do. Sadly, I’ll have to do it on the cold tile-less floor as I can’t afford a bed, much less a rug.
Even as bad as I have it un-made, somehow, somewhere, I’m going to give it one last shot by asking for the millionth time (unsuccessfully, I must add), that someone take a truly risky risk and get my… ah, I can’t do it. I’ve lost all hope. Maybe I should try dope, but I can’t afford that neither.
P.S. My dog, Rambo, insists I at least include the following links to my…