#really have just distilled my writing fingerprints down to a checklist huh

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

hey shitbag

Feeling good in your fingernails? Do they fit the caps of your hands? Congratulations, I’m happy everything fits the way it’s supposed to, month late returns are a hassle on both ends of the phone line.

I’m very tired, but I wanted to say hello from either side of the mirror I should’ve thrown out years ago, but now it’s been hanging off my septum so long i wouldn’t know what to do without it. What’s the turnaround time for a lie you forgot you were telling? 

Regardless, I hope January hasn’t been treating you too unkindly, and that my weird little brain worms dance in a way that make yours go, ‘What the fuck are they doing, get back in containment dickheads, the floor supervisor’s gonna notice.’

The last few months have been somewhat hectic, and coming out the other side of the cosmos blender always leaves my center of gravity somewhere against my ears. I’ve been shaking it down to somewhere reasonable, I’m thinking my right lung, but the interim always leaves doubt and half-measures gumming up the helix gears. 

Making art about making art is, not too niche, but feels like the worst child of self-congratulations and impostor syndrome, and that’s ground I’ve already spilled the kool-aid on but… Dripping candle wax onto parchment paper about the physical ways it affects you, from mistreating your hands to mistreating your sleep, your food intake, the emotional stakes of picking up a fountain pen and expressing yourself regardless of vagary, obfuscation, and letting anyone see it.

It’s one thing to be insulted online, but the stakes feel higher because oh, god, what if they’re right?

And even that feels too open, it’s not a cyclical argument, it’s just compounded into itself, and maybe this is the wrong fear to have, consider our range of soul eating anxieties, ‘cause the center of the tootsie-pop is only downhill from here—

And sometimes, you idiots are the nicest people my art’s ever seen, you’re certainly kinder to it than I am, and when a stranger, someone who has no reason to give me half a second of their day gives up a minute, or three, or five, just to read something I wrote! 

Well. Nobody plays games just to see the end credits.