What makes you write anyway? Is it a mouthful of distress that you
just couldn’t swallow on your own? Is it sheer boredom that has you looking at
a ticking clock like you’ve never seen one before, in your entire life? The
fact that I couldn’t tsunami through a massive crowd drunk on ambition and
religiously devoted to cut throat competition? Is it those unforgivably white,
crisp sheets? Umm... maybe not. It could be a book about an inconsolably
cynical mother questioning the basis of parenthood and happiness that her son,
now convicted of mass murder in his very own school, couldn’t justify.
If pretty was a face, I'd smack it. If pretty were thoughts, I'd
probably drink them down.
Like anyone else now, I look for a job. Pragmatism and rationality
all of a sudden surge through the particulars of an already misconstrued life.
Amen.
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