Yeah I'm angry. People talk about art I get angry. People discussing the separation of money and art and life and love and stories and youth and innocence and all the other bullshit which makes it even easier not to attest to any of your flaws really fucking burns my heart.
Hot bags of shit, phonies, fake drama queens and general wastes of flesh you all are. You writers. You artists. You so called players of the world's stage. You make and think and make and don't DO a fucking thing. You live to not live. You like to write about the world but you haven't lived a fucking minute of any existence worth your pretentious ideas and art. You live to capture what you never do. "I'll simply sit in judgment on things that I believe are pointless or wrong or beautiful."
How is that possible? Unless you can come in and join that burlesque, that bar fight, that 2 hour intense fucking session with candle wax in your hair, or that fucking swan dive off the building to a demise. Unless you can join those things then keep your fucking trap shut. You'll always be a fucking outsider. You'll always be full of shit. You'll never have stories to give away to make people laugh or think. You'll have your precious phony art. You'll have your smirk at the world. You'll have your forgotten wasted death too.