It’s been a whirlwind of days. I’m writing after being inspired again by a Gonzo documentary. This revolutionary style is the contribution of journalist within the story journalism. Which is magic. Sticky, delicious connectedness. Because to write a good story, you have to be an interesting writer. And an interesting writer must be an interesting person with interesting experiences and thoughts. Lame people write lame stories and great people write great stories. It’s just that if your lame you’ll like the lame story and think it’s great. No classifications are really necessary, you drooling evolutionary creature. As your spirit sings to the addition of added information to your consciousness. So, gonzo journalism- now you suddenly added a wildly interesting character to your story. Yourself. It’s a fool proof plan. Because each one of us know that we are the best. But how far would the individual go for their own story? It's an every day test. And yet, how authentic can you continue to be. Not to say that Hunter Thompson didn’t fabricate stories. But he matched a level of absurdity that by logic made the truth and fabrication indecipherable. A terrible, carnival maestro puppeteer planting questions in place for the reader to suddenly wonder about the writer, did that really happen? We could never be sure. Because even if the writer confirms in person of the account, we can still never be sure because we do not have the concrete ability to tell what that specific experience was. We cannot tell because in this world there are truths and lies and it doesn’t ******* matter any way because it’s all the same. It’s all a creation. It’s all one, whole thing chillin together in a small plot of city grass hidden by a paint peeling fence in a sunburst alley in some stinking city. While we separate our books into categories- what is real section, what is not real section, this section, that section, and other stuff. Mostly because we always want to know what we are in for. Because if we know what we are in for, then we get something. knowing. Like a lousy christmas gift. Which has no practical application. It’s an acorn swimming in a sea of acorns and walnuts and the squirrel god just likes eating nuts in general. He doesn’t give a ****. To be frank, he’d actually like if there was an even bigger variety of nuts.

In the process, should a writer ever really delete and edit what they say while they are writing? You said something and suddenly you don’t want to say it anymore- delete. A cohesive piece to your **** storm brain’s thought process, gone. Will the reader understand you less or more now? Does that really even matter. Does the reader matter? More than anything. The readers hold all of the knowledge. They seek out and absorb information from their personally groomed selections as predictable as a trophy wife in a tennis skirt. Words, like toothpaste oozing from a toothpaste tube, will not go back in. Unless you have the technology to put in back in, to prove a grueling point to a close friend that you have to win the argument over. This is the 21st century for crying out loud you ******* idiot. We can do whatever we want.

So this is all frank language. Because brilliant men, are mad. And brilliant women, are beautiful. And it comes off matter of fact when in another universe I am writing the antithesis to every word delivered to this page. Like my evil twin. The dark matter to my matter. While I’m the one on Earth writing the coupe de grais of bathroom poetry. Words- the trying, conniving, carefully plotted seeds of rash giving plants. Affecting everything they touch, spreading thought and emotion feverishly, plaguing us nationally, while they remain the same. Genderless lines, basic shapes, swirling into a vortex of time when you could not yet read but still saw words. We keep words around, always around, kept close within reach, always in eye sight. Just look around.