Unwanted Commentary

I want to write for you, I want to spill my guts on this altar of publication…I want to take the knife of vocabulary, slice open my belly and spill my innards all over the altar of literacy.

I want to hold my cock in my hand and masturbate it until I spill my seed of verbose prose all over your face. I want rub my semen of articulation all over your face until you drown in my circumlocutory insanity.

But I can't. I'm a hack. I am a little man in the world of large verbosity. You have a legion of willing suppliers that can give you better head than I can.

I'm here though. I'm that little guy that wanders around amongst you, not knowing what the fuck I'm doing, watching you. You'll never see me because I'll never register on the radar of your busy, sophisticated life.

I'm a voyeur of life, I don't know what I want; only knowing that I want what you have, but knowing that I can't have it. I'll dwindle and die envying the world that you move in, having soaked up the visual ecstasy of your lives through my observations.

I love you, my filthy readers.