Do you know what I'm doing right now?

I'll tell you what I'm doing right now.

It's 1:30 a.m. on a Sunday night and I am eating a supermarket brand cookie that does a damn good impression of a Thin Mint and writing a review of horrible horror flic for which I will receive $10.

Yes, $10.

This is journalism-karma for Malta.

At the same time, it's amazing what I'll do for someone whose e-mail address ends in @latimes.com. Not that this is actually for the L.A. Times. Just a community newspaper owned by the L.A. Times, which is owned by the famously tight-wadded Tribune Corp. In the words of the editor who assigned my story, the pay is "pathetic."

When the fee discussion is accompanied by an abject apology, you know you're in the wrong business. Even making the laughable assumption that my time is worth nothing (hah!), I stand to make $2.25. That's less than one half cent per word.

I wish I hadn't done that calculation.

This editor better talk me up something good to influential editors at the real L.A. Times.

It's not really their fault, I suppose, that I had to waste 107 minutes of my Sunday watching people hack up mutants with pickaxes and flag poles and baseball bats. I chose it on purpose, because I figured if I was going to be taking notes during a movie it might as well be a crappy one. And I thought maybe I'd be pleasantly surprised. By a horror film. Ok I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Because I can really honestly say that seeing the movie was a complete and utter waste of time I could have spent taking in some much-needed Vitamin D. Can I get worker's comp if I get Rickets because I'm too over-worked to ever leave my apartment (except to go to Malta)?

Someone told me that I sounded "over-worked" in a message I left on their voicemail. Which worried me. Do I sound over-worked? Do I sound like I'm losing it? There better be worker's comp for that too.

I was going to tell you about how I have writer's block (also known as Obsessive Complusive Procrastination Disorder), but it's never interesting to read writers writing about writer's block. I think the problem is that I'm paranoid that I'm going to get the facts wrong because I can't remember exactly when the gurgley breathing noises accompanied the action and whether whatsisname was hacked with a pickaxe or a screwdriver or some other grim tool. Can't they give a writer a damn DVD? I wouldn't sell it to distributors in China, I swear. Unless, of course, there was money to be made off of it. HaHA! That's what you get for paying writers Chinese wages, suckaz!

Oh god, my writing is cheaper than a quarter pounder with fries. What have I come to?

Speaking of food, guess what else the editor also offered to let me write?

A "cheap eats" column.