Life, living and all their relatives can go fuck themselves. I’ll (live? Exist? Be?) vicariously through my writing.
Writing, like a nice strong drink takes the edge off. It gives me my most genuine giggles.
When I’m in the zone, despair can’t touch me.
Existence is torture. Constant pretense. An incessant bully, a charade that gorges itself on my pleas for it to end.
Which is why a Memento Mori tattoo is such a kickass, string-colon-around-neck, dangle-elephant-balls-from-ears idea.
It will rob death of the element of surprise. I will see it coming. Every time I look at my arm, I shall be reminded.
And when it does come, when it anticlimactically shuffles its pathetic, second-guessed, outshone self in, I’ll punch it in the pelvis and yell that tired line at it: YOU CAN’T FIRE ME. I QUIT!