There’s only two things that make me me and that’s the thing that time really likes to think. That once I was a puppy with no eyes remember? And then I was a person in a box of glass — some say castle, but it’s more of a box really. And if we’re really honest, it’s plastic, not glass. Weird huh?
But anyway I never made much sense when I rambled; I can barely make any sense when I don’t ramble, you know? I also use that as a crutch a lot — you know? I know, of course I know, I’m the one writing this. Now I’m talking to meeeeeself. I like myself. Miiself. Myshelf. There’s so many ways of saying it.
That’s the thing — when you sit down to write something, there’s no excuse for writer’s block, fucking write whatever the fuck comes to your head, nigga. It might hurt someone somewhere, like that word that I wrote back there, but maybe it’ll make you a better writer, so who the fuck cares or whatever, you know what I’m sayin, nigga. You also find voices in your head that you didn’t know were there; of course these voices may be caricatures of some random group of people. It’s stereotyping or whatever. I don’t know.
If I offended you: me so solly.