( Discussion: Ebonie and Keira gallop and nay )

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After which, we sadtimes. Hooooomjrjr.



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Suddenly the cash creeps into every thin thread. Every read gets a recurring theme, a bad dream of corporate schemes. I'm not paid to write stories but they pay the price. Each idea has been laced with the stench of money. That familiar smell of sweat sweetened by value. Old and stale, but coveted. Like a stinky century egg.

It's not why I write though. Not for the royalties (hell, there haven't even been any anyway). Not for the first few steps of Maslow's pyramid.

"The practice of art isn't to make a living. It's to make your soul grow." - Kurt Vonnegut

It's emptying a pitcher of water (hardly emptying the sea yet). And the liquid that hits the glass' bottom turns to dusty confetti. The audiences don't rejoice, they cough and hack and double over all slow sick sad sucky. But I want them to, doubly sick and doubly awed. Relief after a particular pain. Or even while in pain. A Palahniuk effect.

But it's not really for them either. I've always reasoned out that the scratch of pentips to paper is euphoric to me. That there are rabid kitties clawing their way out of this skullcage. That there's a sadistic little beast in my brain wanting the world at its feet, poisoned with humanity, as Vonnegut says.

Now it's just bothersome. The things I come up with suffer from my experiences - since what else would I be writing about? And what I'm experiencing is slavery to cents.

In my head, everything can be bought: nightmares and people and emotions and identities. It's not that I lack any of them, though they are often suppressed stored away shunned. It's just the insistence of the stupid idea that everything's been tagged with a few numbers and signs and dots and ta-da! Off to the cash register with you.

I need to change this view. Now where do I buy that? Or barter? There's only a few coins left in my wallet, and I'd rather just give them away. Clink clink clink to the beggar's hungry hand equals clink clink clink said the key to the lock.


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Something has always been off every time a Friday the 13th comes around each year.

I'm happier.


Weird.



( Discussion: Greetings from CanBeI and Nahnah! )

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If I friend something tangible again, I shall name it Ringo Picasso.
Also, the word "shrapnel" is fun.


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