Writing about Writing

Writing isn’t about catering to expectations. Writing isn’t about filling some algorithmic quota of clicks or satisfying the glazed-over stares of the “audience.” Nah, writing is about exorcism, plain and simple. It’s dragging the tangled thoughts out of your head, shaking them loose, and hurling them onto the page. And yeah, if that page happens to offend, confuse, or bore someone, that’s their problem, not mine.

When I write, and I hardly do, but when I do, I’m neither thinking of you nor about you. I’m thinking in relation to me.

Writing is survival; it’s the closest thing to therapy without the couch. It’s a way to scream without losing my voice, to debate without some echo chamber of X zealots (formerly known as Twitter mobs) jumping down my throat. You don’t get that? Cool. Don’t read. This isn’t for you. I’m not some performing seal flipping word-fish into the crowd hoping for applause. I’m here to think, to unravel, to throw a molotov cocktail at convention and see what burns. And you? You’re just collateral damage.

Fuck the public. Yeah, I said it & meant it. Fuck the swarm of passive readers who expect their daily dose of digestible, sanitized, feel-good drivel. Comfort is a killer. Your need for easy, agreeable words makes writers like me fat and lazy. So fuck that, too. Fuck the need to be liked. Fuck bending over backward to please people I’ll never meet, people who’d ghost me at a dinner table but have the nerve to critique my work from behind a screen.

And let’s talk about this so-called "education." The academic way? It’s a leash. A polished, ivy-league leash designed to make barbarians wear suits and tie their rage into a neat little bow. “Write this way, think that way, use big words but not too many, and for God’s sake, cite your sources.” Screw that noise. If education is supposed to free us, why does it feel like a gilded cage? And while we’re at it, fuck the educated barbaric, too—the ones who mastered the language of conformity so well they’ve mistaken it for wisdom.

Animals. Goddamn animals. They’ve been weaponized as mirrors for human virtue. Look how pure they are. Look how free. Nonsense. Animals are selfish, primal, and unabashedly them. Humans romanticize animals to compensate for their own emptiness. And you? You’re just as shallow for falling for it. Look at the dolphin—smart, social, graceful—but also a rapist of the ocean. Who’s projecting now?

And yeah, fuck me too.

Fuck me for needing this. For thinking out loud and expecting the void to respond. This is me outside my brain & most certainly inside yours, raw and unfiltered. There’s no lesson here, no moral high ground, no "aha" moment to tie it all together.

Just words that are mine, unrestrained and unwelcome, because that’s the only way I know how to be.