There was a man standing outside my office window, back towards me. He stuck his hands down his pants, scratched his ass and threw shit on my office window.
I'm young enough to get away with being outrageously opinionated and luckily not just jaded. Throw in a real love for hearing that people are reading my work, and voila, you've got everything you need to become a famous writer. Right?
Everything else you want to know about me is buried deep between the lines of my work. As if I was going to just lay it all out here at once. Where's the drama in that?
No comments:
Post a Comment