I pretend I'm a writer when I'm not pretending I'm a rockstar. Both of these things may or may not take place in front of the bathroom mirror.
You probably have no idea what my posts are about, and that's the way I like it. True art fails to yield to analysis.
Self-indulgent biography, attempt at humor, pseudo-intellectual Nietzsche quote, etc. etc. etc.
Limbo’s Lover with the Crimson Lips
Today, I opened my mouth at the wrong time and hell poured out [it was right where I left it.] Medics were rushed to the scene at the speed of a California wildfire, and the burn ward overflowed with eager contestants in the skin graft sweepstakes. You should’ve been there for the dazzling display; everyone in attendance walked away with a brand new scar. We’ve got more great prizes where that came from. Next week we’re waking the dead and each household is equipped with decay. This winter’s forecast includes six feet of ashfall - just enough to conceal the corpses strewn across this city’s sidewalks. Look what I’ve done to our beautiful junkyard! I must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of the guillotine. Someone spiked the office coffee with alcohol and other evils. This whole block was ancient anyway; hopes fossilized, dreams extinct… I did what any demon would do.
