I’d literally pay you $200 if you could guarantee Master P gets to reads this.
Guess what? I’m not dead. I’ve taken a nine month sabbatical from writing about shit people don’t care about. The best part is, I have no good reason why I stopped writing. I didn’t get married, I wasn’t shipped off to war and I didn’t get syphilis from passing out head first on a toilet seat at Denny’s. I just wasn’t feeling “it.” “It” is a strange partner in crime for me; anger, frustration, excitement all squished together like an enchilada. Inspiration, if you will, comes to me in these compact food stuffs and like any good meal the sensation of being “full” passes to re-emerge on its own mystical schedule. So that’s where I’m at; sitting at a table, my paws clutching over sized eating utensils, stomach mumbling like a gagged S&M submissive bobbing in nipple clamp pain. Who/what is my target, you may be thinking…well, I have none. I’m still a fucking hypocrite, I’m amazingly against any type of mainstream cultural controls but I’ll be the first guy in the movie theater to shush the shitty group of talking teens. Yin and yang, chaos and order; these are my nightmares now a days. Struggling with the normal daily pressure of a plugged in twenty something squaring off against my devilishly delicious imagination. One or the other wins, and for the past nine months, normalcy has won on the surface. Sure, I’m still the guy spending 3 hours at the bar expounding on his movie idea of an overweight vampire who masturbates outside windows. I just have been doing it less and less these days. And they have been haunting days spent looking in the mirror or chasing career options. But that’s over and I’m not gonna let “it” win. I’m going to flesh out the most terrifying dreams of madness and intrigue on this site, and it’ll be my oasis for showcasing the capture of chaos in a jar, displayed like a lightning bug. You better be fucking ready to die…and whatever you do, don’t show my Mom what I write.
