*note to self - Private *
I just read a 1200 word piece by a pretty lady blogger about losing and finding and losing and finding her $400 sunglasses. Its a story as old as kittens vs. mittens vs. kittens. Sure it would be easy to say that this women is the Antichrist and everything that is wrong with humanity, but I got a feeling as I read her story, that in fact, isn’t this the story of us all? Aren’t we all really just vain Canadian women who get paid to write short fiction?
Tis but a pretty, vain, Canadian lady, blogger of the mind.
And sure I’m prolly just jealous of anyone who has enough writing talent to make money recounting thier banal existence with enough sardonic wit to play it off as self actualization. Lord knows millions of male novelists have built 200,00+ plus word shrines to their own cocks, so hell… someone might as well play off being honest about being shallow as a form of depth.
Fiction that is a more boring version of a dumb persons nonfictional life. What a novel idea. Probably not for everyone. People seem to like it though. Makes the author seem ‘fo realz’ I guess. “Hey wow - I’m a dumb piece of shit too!” Cuz then you can truly have a breakthru. We are all dumb shallow pieces of shit who let other humans starve and die in the streets. We suck. Its our legacy. Not that we don’t care, I mean have you seen how thin Kate whats her fucking name is…
Its a tragedy written by an emotional stunted sex toy. An ode to boring, middle aged, white cock. A lie that a doll keeps on telling itself. A robot looking through sacred texts that only gets off when it sees pictures of itself.
In other words… a best seller.
