I used to have stuff. Vinyl records, mementos, HI8 video tapes. I used to maintain certain ideals, specific truths which guided me, mantras of thought - yet somewhere along the line I started overusing commas (*self dep plug) (overusage of commas represents paralytic thinking, the inability to convey complex thought or rather a fear of failure in relation to creative pursuit). Now I have blank walls, barren tabletops, a toilet paper landscape surrounds me. My heart pumps bleach, a mind akin to a tire fire, commas set aflame (*self dep plug) (my persistant use of commas serves as a stark reminder to my perineal ineptitude and otherwise lack of creative ability) and when I cry my tears taste of glade plug-ins. This is surrealism, this is unadulterated agony, a story no one wants to read, life as a person of luke warm interest, my life on this planet, an earthbound hell.
