cipher

"8. No, I don't know what I want. And no, that wasn't all that un-subtle. I'm sorry."

Why do I even write things like that? It's not as if she'll ever read it. At least, she's not supposed to. Not in the "it's a secret" kind of way, more in the "what a cop out way to say something to someone" kind of way. And none of you have the slightest idea what I'm talking about. Why the fuck.


I swear I just can't write anymore. The muse jumped ship (limes anyone?). I'm no longer an artist, just a fucking professional appreciator. Can't help but wonder if it was all just a fluke, if I can only be creative when my life is a living hell. After all, my best work, poems like "THIS IS NOT AN EXIT" and "Wintering" were essentially just a snapshot of how completely shitty my life was at the time. A scary thought, but fuck if I'm going back there. I like my life now, though I'll grant that it's a unique fixer-upper opportunity. But I like it. Art. Why.

Extra credit for anyone that catches both cinematic references in the above paragraph. Except for billbraskey. He better get them, or he's out of the club.

And now to Ollie Williams for the punishment forecast.
"He gonna get it!!"