Re-animated

Ah, very good... up five points. Your value is rising.

You're on the 'up and up' ready to claim your prize that lies in the bottom of a Crackerjack box, your piece of the pie. Counting your praises, like pennies, hunched over a solitary candle, you sit alone by your laptop sifting through dusty volumes full of dusty ideas desperate to arrive at the next great original thought. A formulaic exercise in thievery, regurgitation, and repackaging. This blog, this so-called experiment, houses the concepts and theories you supposedly cast-off. A digital island of misfit toys, misshapen freaks, and there you sit surveying it all. Dr. Moreau himself. Creator, destroyer, fabricator of hypocrisy, lover of links... fat and bloated beyond reason: so full of reeking, fetid bullshit. This home grown concoction you ladle from a gigantic black cauldron kept in some seedy, secret back room where you cook up this disgusting stew. A little Wilde, a dash of Greene, a pinch of Ginsburg, a tablespoon of Palahniuk, and the list goes on. Varying degrees of theft.

But wait, isn't all art theft?

I hear a distant, rhythmic slapping sound, the sloppy sound of fucking, or maybe it's merely you, reading your own work which you humbly claim is unfinished and unpolished, tugging on your tiny pecker, your other hand, caught up in the moment, crinkling a copy of Neruda. Meathead assholes drive big trucks because they have small cocks. In the circles we run in, men who use garrulous, pedantic words also have small.... ideas? They have small... imaginations? Nah. I'm inclined to think they also have small, underused peckers. I'm inclined to think YOU haven't been laid in a year and a half. I'm inclined to think you want to bang some bright eyed, nubile lit student, perhaps woo her with your in-depth knowledge of Joyce, Dostoevsky, and Beckett, and failing even in this endeavor utterly. I imagine you sitting there on your throne, your Dickies around your ankles, wallet chain dangling, squeezing out your next turd, polished and gleaming - a scalding observational piece criticizing someone you've never actually met but think you know based off a select number of words or images this other person has carefully chosen to provide you. Someone you think you know because you will invariably compare this person to someone you knew once, or perhaps in your egocentricity, to yourself once upon a time. Someone you know because you read some books and compare this person to one of the many fictional, fossilized characters you surround yourself with. How pathetic.

A dinosaur on the verge of extinction attempting to examine and decipher the bones of Homo Sapien.

I can imagine a person like that. Despite whatever airs of sophistication they may try to hoodwink or bamboozle the rest of us with. Despite whatever masks they may choose to don. Despite their efforts to mingle with the common folk sipping Guiness discussing the latest indie bands, dressed in denim, Diesel, and black and white Chuck Taylor's complete with a small tattoo on their arm which thus screams their rebelliousness and surety. Yes, I can imagine a person like that and no, that person does not stare at me every night when I brush my teeth. I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about you and you know I'm talking about you.

Even if I wasn't, in your hubris and pretension, you'd still probably know I was.