2107 | wtf with all the writing |

It just all seemed pretty stupid to me all of a sudden, all this sitting alone and writing, mp3s on crappy computer speakers, an empty plate and crumpled napkin and empty can next to the keyboard, by myself, alone alone alone, checking Duotrope to find a new lit mag that does not suck nuts so that maybe a dozen people will read some shit I wrote, browser with Redtube tab, needing to be touched somewhere other than there by someone other than myself — everything I write has porn and hugs in it now. These fucking blogs. I want to tell blogs to fuck off the way you tell your parents you are running away and then get a few blocks and come back crying. Fuck you blogs, fuck blogs, you win. Yeah, typing on paper and keeping it in a drawer so nobody can read it is great. Fucking around with ribbons and white out and actually having to know how to type sounds like a blast. Hey look at me! I'm so old-school and hip! I have a watch with a chain, too, and women cannot vote and the streets are filled with horse shit and nobody older than 30 has all their teeth and it does not matter because they will die soon anyway and black people are not allowed to read. Yeah. Maybe the Internet will just blink off and all of this will disappear forever. That might be nice. I would like to write about that on a cave wall with a burnt stick, and instead of words it would be a drawing of an extinct animal ('cause I killed it) with a spear in its eye. The cave wall would never need to update its software. And I could just sit alone, writing, maybe hit a log with a branch, invent music, eat some bugs, and be alone alone alone, and maybe somebody someday would find the cave wall

and read it.