THIS is the part...
Well.
I walked away from this journal a while ago and turned my back on writing. I was jaded, angry, a malcontent in a sea of listless ne'er-do-wells with the same thing on our minds: 'Making It' in a world where 'It' has yet to be defined.
So now I'm back, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Just more biased, bombastic bullshit and a bigger chip on my shoulder to go with it, I suppose. I hope you brought me some good dip, bitches.
The most disheartening thing about this little microchasm of the Internet that I inhabit has to be the quality of shit people try to pass as legitimate art. Yes, you own a Wacom and a word processor, but that doesn't give you license to stab my eyes with pointy-hot-failure every time you get a tickle in your downstairs mix-up, as Old Greg would call it. Honestly, I think you'd be better off giving yourself a tumor somewhere very visible, like your face or ass, than torturing the rest of us with these products of your self-loathing.
Sometimes I get the idea I might be a little bit full of myself, but that's patently false: I hate myself, you silly gits, no two ways about it, and anybody who says otherwise is just trying to get in my pants or onto my editorial account. My only redeeming quality, in my opinion, is that I recognize these things as shit. It may not sound like much, but if you take a moment to skim the 40+ fangasm reviews of a shit-tastic-shit-sandwich-with-shit-on-the-side-Twilight-fanfic, you'll start to see the glow of reason somewhere in the brown spectrum. Hopefully.
Otherwise, you're lost to me and should kill yourself. Now-ish.
I walked away from this journal a while ago and turned my back on writing. I was jaded, angry, a malcontent in a sea of listless ne'er-do-wells with the same thing on our minds: 'Making It' in a world where 'It' has yet to be defined.
So now I'm back, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Just more biased, bombastic bullshit and a bigger chip on my shoulder to go with it, I suppose. I hope you brought me some good dip, bitches.
The most disheartening thing about this little microchasm of the Internet that I inhabit has to be the quality of shit people try to pass as legitimate art. Yes, you own a Wacom and a word processor, but that doesn't give you license to stab my eyes with pointy-hot-failure every time you get a tickle in your downstairs mix-up, as Old Greg would call it. Honestly, I think you'd be better off giving yourself a tumor somewhere very visible, like your face or ass, than torturing the rest of us with these products of your self-loathing.
Sometimes I get the idea I might be a little bit full of myself, but that's patently false: I hate myself, you silly gits, no two ways about it, and anybody who says otherwise is just trying to get in my pants or onto my editorial account. My only redeeming quality, in my opinion, is that I recognize these things as shit. It may not sound like much, but if you take a moment to skim the 40+ fangasm reviews of a shit-tastic-shit-sandwich-with-shit-on-the-side-Twilight-fanfic, you'll start to see the glow of reason somewhere in the brown spectrum. Hopefully.
Otherwise, you're lost to me and should kill yourself. Now-ish.