I’m working on a post about self-diagnosed, self-promoting male psychopaths, because who doesn’t love that sweet, sweet not-actually-murder, but I have to take time out to throw shade at all the bloggers out there writing about being one’s authentic self on the Internet. “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart,” indeed. The breathings of my heart are pretty sulfurous right now.
I’m really just sulking because I want to vent, but can’t, so I’m taking it out on random advicegivers. And also on Romantic poets. Go suck a daffodil, Wordsworth.
(And no, the reason I can’t express myself is not that I’m secretly a psychopath and can’t give away that I’m dancing in the moonlight in a cloak made out of somebody else’s skin. You should know that already because I’m busy writing here, who would interrupt the intricacies of their Satanic murder ritual with something as dull as blogging?)