It’s true what they say: an individual doesn’t write a novel, a bus of noisy, farty, tired yuppies does. And on that bus were Justin Seely, Noleg Goat, Christopher Frederick Portsmouth, Jeh Johnson, and Anisa Ibrahim, all of them constant distractions; it’s amazing I got any work done at all. This book owes absolutely nothing to any of you.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the spiteful staff at the national library: Sandra Leon, Maureen Samuleh, Ban Ki Moon (no relation), and James Kee, you are all terrible librarians. You made the thirty-five minutes of research I undertook a real drab experience. I sincerely hope your pensions don’t pay out. To all the staff at Hatchet Job Press, what can I say? Each and every one of you has major, deep-seated psychological, physiological, and digestive problems. To my editor, Rebecca Samuel, your unkeen eye and penchant for adjectives has made this a terrible book and me a worse writer.
To my pot dealer, Richard Bruno, I know you’ve been shorting me on those half-ounces. To my amphetamine dealer, Emma Joy, thanks for all the late-night lessons in continental philosophy that I neither asked to hear nor understood. To my LSD, mescaline, and peyote dealer, Dr. Steven McClain, believe it or not, I feel rather neutral towards you. I’ve based the novel’s character of Ben Mantooth the deranged, slow-witted sewer dweller on you.
Robert Williams, James Lee, Tom Crist, Frank Addo, Lusy Harrison, Kimberely Anderson, Alicia Kalk, Sir George Graham, Mao Chen, Gardenia Farley, and Helen Craig, I hate each and every one of you. Thanks for nothing.
To my family: growing up with you was the most trying and frightening experience any human has ever endured, ever. It’s amazing I made it into adulthood at all. All of my literary successes and accolades are a spit in the face to your cruelty, dishonesty, and bad cooking. A special shout out to my father, the Governor.
And finally, to the love of my life, Kikki Watson. And by love of my life, I mean, of course, the worst thing that ever happened to me. Kikki, I disagreed with every single suggestion and comment you made on the first sixty-six drafts of this book. You made what would have been a painless process, very, very painful. I know it’s hard to hear, but I wish I had never met you, that we never ended up in those adjoining sensory deprivation tanks all those years ago. What a demoralizing journey it’s been ever since; I can’t wait for it to end.
When this book left my hands it was absolutely perfect. Any and all mistakes, errors in geography, gross mischaracterizations, grammar misuses, plot holes, libelous or slanderous content rests with the legions of people in my life who are out to get me.
You know who you are.
*Disclaimer: this acknowledgements page is a work of fiction, and (for the most part) does not reflect its author’s opinion on acknowledgement pages in general.