"Why do you write?" you ask me, and if I had any common sense I would light a cigarette, stare passionately into the camera, and tell you through a haze of smoke that "I have no choice," or, "If I could not write I would die," or, "well, because I am a writer," but I do not have any common sense and so I will tell you that it doesn't matter why I write because the reasons are selfish and meglomanic and irrelevant, and I will tell you that I am so fucking sick of these writing communities focused around the spiritual, esoteric, mystical aspect of "writing," like by this mysterious act of "writing" you become a higher being, somebody of importance, somebody who has Things to Say, like by asking questions like "where do you go when you're writing?" and "Do you consult the I-Ching or the ouija board when you write?" or the godforsaken, "Where do you get your ideas?" we will be closer to some hollowed out hell-beast of an agnostic, nihilistic, existentialist god of hedonistic writing religion.

Well I have something to tell you, writers, if you write to entertain your friends and family with Naruto fanfiction and Buffy The Vampire Slayer roleplays, great, fan-fucking-fantastic, I fully support you. But if you write because you think it makes you a better human being, then please get the fuck out. I thought it would make me a better human being. I thought that by writing I would achieve something that would make me more than a corpse rotting underneath your Grandma's porchsteps by the end of the day, but it doesn't. I'm a lazy, self-involved, secretly-stupid mentally unstable biologically insufficient scrazy fucker who can't even find a reason to get out of bed anymore. Depression doesn't make you a noble sufferer, it just makes you feel like the world is bottoming out, and you're so disconnected you don't even shower or change your clothes for days on end. I think most people are still living in the Victorian Era, when womanly suicide was romanticized and poeticized and plastered all over the town hall, where they had tours of the mental asylum so the commoners could look at the "crazy people" and poke sticks through the bars. Anxiety isn't beautiful or noble, it's fucking difficult. It makes you do ridiculous things out of fear and nervousness. It makes you do things you regret. It makes walking out of your house a living hell some days, but don't let that stop you from waxing poetic about the beauties and unique special snowflakness of such a condition.

Let me be honest, I fucking hate most writers. I hate the self-indulgent pow-wow circles, the community back-biting, the overly-spiritualized outlook of the "writing process", the intolerance for anybody who goes outside the norm too much in what's supposed to be an unique art-form, the endless discussions about style and grammar, the idea that any of it means a damn difference. That's the funniest part of it, I think.

So ask me where I get my ideas now. I get my ideas when my mother drags me into a mental hospital and yells about how I betrayed her the entire time. I get my ideas from being arrested and crying until I nearly pass out while they take my fingerprints and have me strip naked to check for weapons. I get my ideas from never having been intimate with another human being. I get my ideas from getting so scared of going somewhere that I start crying and hyperventilating. Whine. Whine. Whine. Fuckedy fuck fuck.

Goodbye.