The great American struggle: grappling with the blank page
I was sitting at my computer just before dawn, listening to the steady crackle of my overworked record player, bouncing repeatedly off the groove in the paper label of The Beatles’ Let It Be.
Procrastination never sounded so sweet. I brewed myself an espresso as I played with the idea of putting on the Smiths. My neighbors probably hear it at top volume and wallow in the jealousy they must feel, living in the shadow of the tortured dark success just sixteen feet away. The power they’ll never meet – unless they come ask me to turn it down.
People just don’t understand me. It takes a unique point of view, cultivated within the bowels of suburban all-white neighborhoods, perverted by Mormonism, to really understand where I’m coming from. And even then, they’ll probably just go on Facebook and hashtag it. Pop a pill, and feel nothing. So dark. So troubled.
Sent from my iPhone
One reply on “Pretentious Chronicle Post Horrifies Millions”
It felt embarrassing to write this. Even as a joke.