So I’m not a real writer because I blog? How the fuck does that make sense? So then tell me, in which medium does a “real writer” produce their work? Only if they’re published? Well gee, lemme just drop my manuscript off to the next publisher, ’cause it’s easier to get a book deal than it is to get the morning after pill. ‘Cause only real writers get published.
There’s someone I’d like you to meet, douchebag. His name is Marshall McLuhan. Maybe you can get your head outta your ass long enough to introduce yourself, and I’ll go back to crying tears over the fact that you think my blog is shitty, and that I don’t have the respect of a person I’ve never met, and frankly, don’t want to meet.
And also: kiss my black ass. Bye!
ETA: There’s a function on WordPress now where with each post you publish, they suggest tags and categories for you to use based on some of the words in your post. Well this is what I got after publishing the one you see before you:
I’m totally adding a “black ass” category.
I’m not a huge fan of poetry, but this one – to use a cliché loosely- is short and bittersweet. It’s called “Suicide’s Note.”
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.
Only a literary genius could pack so much meaning into 12 hauntingly beautiful words. *Sigh*.
Maya Angelou & Langston Hughes just chillin’. And a little bit of illin’.
When Adele and Sienna – twin sisters and total hotties – had their turn, Brian decided it would be funny to exclaim: “Meow! Catfight!”
But he didn’t find it so funny when, on his walk home after class, a stray tabby left long scratches on his left cheek.
The title of this post, of course, refers to yet another awesome search term used to find my blog. Even better: “brain fuck.”
It’s comforting to know that there are more screwed up people than I in the world.
It’s not so comforting that they find their way on my blog.