This is interesting: For the first time, circa high school, I've reverted to the blog. Reverted in a bad way?—depends who you ask. And for the first time, circa graduate creative writing mandates, I've found my way—a manifest destiny, of sorts, if you will—back to words. But this go around, these words are in postmodern suspension, wanting laissez faire but desperate for the sure hand of...well, form. I'm a skeptic of skeptics. And what do we even make of pop culture these days? Women are in pieces; the female body butchered and sutured by the female body. And living in postmodernism, nothing gives. Or, at the very least, nothing gives back—unless you are wanting push (puss?) back. Don't get me wrong; I'm not for formalities and tongue-in-cheek clicks of the tongue. But thank God I'm not a Millennial.
So, I am a writer. A good one or bad? The way I see it: in a world where no one cares about the dangling participle of self and the yin-yang is overused as bic pens, the chances of this blog being read is probably relative to the relative theory. And that's why I am here. Besides, swallowing words makes for a rather Hemingway-esque, sordid lifestyle. Personally, I don't find romanticizing fantasized suicide a cathartic gesture.
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