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.
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I wish I knew what to tell you at this point… Hell, I wish I knew what to tell myself. These days the pauses dominate our dialog. Lately it’s all been static, like a channel I’ve been forbidden access to. Your plot has been all but clear, ask the critics. They’ll tell you that you were destined for exclusive viewing. I guess I just don’t have the credentials to stay a solid cast member. So many advances on insanity and impulsive reactions later, I feel as though my cameo has been overused. I’m waiting around for you to tell me I’m wrong, to invite me as a permanent guest on your program. I promise I’ll raise the ratings.
Hidden meaning aside, I wish I knew what happened because I would fucking change it. My head hurts every night now. There isn’t enough Excedrin to take it away.
Migraine medicine never shows me it cares anymore.
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eatmichaelfirst posted this
