Wednesday, July 18, 2012

So. I'm a writer.



So I can write.

Big deal.

Does that mean I need to make a career out of it? Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life sitting behind a computer or with a pen in hand struggling to find words that describe perfectly the exact emotion I feel, or my character feels, while trying (in vain) to look like I don’t give a shit about the rest of the world, that’s slowly starting to spiral down into madness and chaos?

(Like I care. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life begging the world for solitude and quiet and peace and go all emo to “just leave me the fuck alone, will you!”  while secretly lusting for the world’s approval of what I so desperately try to get the world to notice?

(I don’t need you. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to drown myself in hard liquor and slowly burn the insides of my lungs with that pack of cigarettes a day I just CANNOT do without, sitting outside a coffee shop with three empty cups of cappuccino (Grandes, naturally) staring into space giving off a mysterious aura of *wait for it, and I’m only using this word to be on par with what what I mentioned in the first paragraph about always having to find the right word, NOT because I’m out of words, which I am SO not. (Hmph!)* mystery?

(*sip, puff, aura* Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to live “alone” in a studio apartment the rest of my life, going out only to be inspired by the people walking past me into the coffee shop and by the night sky or the rain or the rainbow or the sunset or the lyric of my (current) favorite song, and only bringing home people when I’m horny, and need that post-coital smoke to inspire me too?

(Sex? Hmph.)

Does it? DOES IT?!?



Oh it does?

*emo, sip, puff, aura, post-coital puff*

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