935am [that thing of ours]

you send your stories out. you do. you wait and wait. you go ooh man i wanna be a famous writer ooh man i want ppl to like me love me

hold me tell me i am something whisper to me baby it is gonna be ok ooh child you got what we all want here here here is your fame here you are mosdef famous now baybee

read what they say about you yeah when they write about you yeah hate on you who cares you are famous now dude totally accepted right no longer the kid everyone hated at school no way it is time to finally fuck all the pretty people who ignored you before oh whatta fantasy this is pull my cock out for you yeah plus i mean who cares what the unpublished [REAL HOUSES] motherfuckers think hahaha lookit who answers my tweets bet they do not follow you do they no FUCK NO

never they never will

oh god

look i am in this wanna-be magazine this week how fuckin cool am i man oh everyone go here follow the linnnnnnnkkkkkkkkkkk.

justified?

happier?

accepted by some fuck with a blogspot url?

or no. featured on their own spayshell site.

and after the non-existent release party in some imaginary cavernous club somewhere where lily allen thumps thru the speakers [and everyone sucks each other off] someone in latex offers you blow and five minutes with david bowie right?

i mean. everything is ok. you can tell me just how far you daydream your fantasy. i keep secrets. i know you have been working on it for quite some time.

sad really. you hang with the other hacks and everyone asdf's and fawns and fucks online and leaves real-life mates for internet ones

and just like always no one gets anywhere beside pat-on-the-back ville.

yawn. i am yawning

at a bunch of shitty typists masquerading as fast friends

while a million days pass on top of a million days.

congrats.

you are everything you once railed against.