Monday, July 28, 2025

Á Plus Tard

It's always pretty when you can denude of all pretense and just say, kiss me good-bye

My experience with this blog has been the anechoic loud ripple of my thoughts in vitro. It has been fun. 

But there is only so long of yourself you can take without an emetic choke, and I'm crushed under the weight of my own narcissism striated thin into a tat limousine dun and ready to whiplash my throat into applesauce. 

It has been boring as well. 

The state of this community is immutable by time spent in stasis. It's mostly all gone. 

It makes me sad I wasn't there in time to enjoy the show; when it was done I wasn't even born. How time works. 

When I took hold these past two weeks my words felt like me only by xerography; I was told to amount to certain parameters; to scrub the chiaroscuro and make it more claro than scuro. 

If you're a writer then you will know this is a ruin. Not the thought of optimistic idealism, but precisely the cinching of thought that makes prose spill in all the wrong directions. 

All of this with my willing consent of course. Kristen was very kind in her absence to let me scream my words into a megaphone without reproach, and I am very thankful to her. 

My problem is that I couldn't accommodate to the role very well. I am not that person. 

I don't loathe what I have written. I won't perorate over my lack of amour propre like cheap Dorothy Parker imitation. I'm glad I write; I love to have written. 

The piece is Miss Daria Lovett, by Korallrahu

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