sometimes, when the blank page stares at me, the cursor blinking, hoping for me to string together a sentence or two, teasing me, laughing at my desertion from sanity, i can sit down and read another writer, and know that he also fought with himself. he sipped from the same bottle, smoked his way out of trouble, and struck his fist against the bastard machine, because no one else was around to understand. it's a constant surrender of your intimate thoughts, you air out the dirty laundry hoping that somehow the other humans here will understand you a little better.

that's stupid though.

they just want to stay away from you even more.

because you're that guy nobody wants to be around at the party. you lack the ability to lie, bullshit and indulge.

so you make your own party, off in the corner somewhere, with a bottle between your legs, and you make funny faces at people, create stories and conversations, day dream about the women and observe from far.

hence:

the words.

welcome to my party