Today’s blog is a real shit show, a crapfestive delvation into the murky underworld of literary underwear (and not the sexy kind either… we’re talking granny gotch here). Every word entering your mind will be a complete waste of your time, and may possibly leave you feeling stupider for the experience. Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING about this article will measure up to any kind of standard, except perhaps for the standard of living, which has now been diminished by several minutes in your case. The time you wasted reading this will never come back to you.
This article is a purge, a wordsmithing purge of completely selfish vainish proportions and is designed to twist my ego into submission for daring to fuck with my sense of fun in recent posts. There no doubt will be better, more betterer articles in the near future, but they will only come as a result of fun, inspiration, and a desire to satisfy my own personal insights into the world, and NOT to make you admire me for my self proclaimed brilliance.
Make no mistake. Today’s article is not a self loathing, self pitying, make you feel sorry for me, plea for attention. Despite walking to Atlantis this morning in the -34 bright sunny weather (a contrast of epic proportions), I am in a great mood, and an even greater headspace. Today’s article is merely a public declaration of war upon my ego, and the carnage thereof is for you to behold. Like a train wreck unfolding in slow motion, you can’t look away cuz you already made it this far into the read.
This smoking twisted wreckage is a promise left behind, a vow to myself that I will never again sit down to write something designed for the purpose of having you stroke my own ego. If I can’t first be honest with myself with my craft, I won’t write at all. My writing is the first thing I ever learned about myself, in that I myself can only bring into the world the words I let slip off my fingertips, for the purpose of allowing me to see the world, in only the way I can see it. That last sentence is a convoluted mumble jumble, but it makes perfect sense to me.
Thank you for bearing witness to this mess. I also promise to keep the ride as something worth your while too. That way, we’ll both be happy. After-all, who wants to write in a vacuum?