Sitting in a coffee shop in yupstown hipsville Brooklyn scrawling in a notebook with a headband on I become a caricature of myself why these things even matter to me I cannot explain but I feel like scumbag anyway
Constantly criticizing revising rewriting my words and theirs my thoughts "oh thats pretentious" "what is that? your talking out your ***" "why do I/you even bother?" Why can't I just go? Be write write scribble doodle think at least I'm not the ******* sitting across from me (there it goes again)
But i am part of a growing number of diligent dilettantes with notebooks and novels leather bound and worn "vintage" and "obscure" instruments and tastes because I am all leisure I have that kind of time but aren't I just another ****? Cunting out my cunty cuntness like it's something new like i'm not just playing games playing roles half committed and pandering to an audience of privilege looking for clarity, or authenticity? or am I just another salesman?
Ugh I cannot escape my sense of inadequacy I m a sham, a ******* artist When is it going to ******* end.... is there any escape that comes without labels self imposed or otherwise? (stop wining you ****!)
doesn't anyone else feel like this? I'm talking to you hipsters.