I'm typing this on a touch screen tablet and it's already a gigantic pain in the ass. I don't even know why I'm doing this other than I'm perpetually late to the party. By the time I knew what MySpace was, it had fallen out of fashion.
I like writing. I like the idea of an audience. Right now, this is solely a vanity project to write whatever I feel like writing. Enjoying it yet?
I see the feedback tab in the corner. I have a codependent relationship with that. Do You ever get jealous on Facebook? I have. Post something insightful, a song ("listen to the words, man") or a funny picture and you get nothing! I hate to admit my own narcissism and vanity to anyone. I realize what a pile of horseshit that previous sentence is since I started a fucking blog to tell you.
Deep breathes. Wowie kazowie, this is therapeutic! I'm saving a fortune, just venting to this empty page and a possible few strangers...
See that? It's always about me. Not that you might enjoy it, but that I will be read.
Jesus. I almost added "and understood." I'm going to make myself throw up.
Brass tacks time. I'm not that hard to understand. I hate cliches but like to make up my own. Here:
"My ego and I are distant lovers, but we see each other now and then."
Gold, right? Right.
More later. I'm not getting paid to do this.
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