Drunk Monologue

I have never understood what this feeling is. That desperate night time needs to hear the keys typing by themselves, silence all around the house and the aching in my heart. I think this feeling is the reason why I write, you see.

Some say the arts are for the ones who want to cure their soul, some say it is a get away from reality. Others may say most of us are lazy. Well, fuck them. I envy painters and musicians. I envy writers, the good ones. It’s all fun and games until you struggle with expressing your thoughts. And the good ones have a different sight of the world than those who do not have the dexterity to correlate their emotions with their sense of humanity, their identity.

Well, I’m pissed. I’m pissed at fake writers and fake musicians. I’m pissed at dumb people who support their fake moralities and their fake values. Fucking sellouts. I’m pissed at those writers who think more about their sales at the end of the year instead of the love for the art. Why the fuck do you even pick up the pen? I’m pissed at fake samaritans, copy and pasted bullshit shot at people. Just fucking wake up. Really. To be honest, I’m pissed at life. I’m pissed at methodically crafted media and advertisements. I’m pissed at the fact that nowadays there’s a market for everything. It’s disgusting how some people can’t string two words coherently and still fill the needs of someone with their bad literature. These underserved audiences are like muppets. And I feel bad for them.

And I’ll drink to them. I’ll smoke to them, and one day I’ll die accepting that I even wanted to post this crap.

Ah, whatever. Let’s get drunk and enjoy life.