If I must write an A, this paper shows a B, and if I must write an F, this paper shows an U.
Such is the nature of my writing and such is the nature of the dream of my madness. For you see, I was once a normal person just like everyone else. I liked reading books and devoured them completely with watermelon juice mixed with vodka. I tasted the inks in my tongue before letting my words flow into every direction. I went out with my friends to relax and I went back home to rest. Everything was going great. I was living the writer’s life: going to conferences, writing books, going to conferences, reading books, going to conferences, trying to write books, going to conferences, giving interviews, and going to conferences. It was all very exciting because in every conference I gave the same speech and answered the same questions. I was also a writer, and I was writing sometimes.
But as I write these words with a deadline ahead, I realize it is all over because this paper feels like writing what I do not want to write. It writes what my mind thinks not what my mind answers and as much as I try to force my hand to draw the sexy, singular lines of an M, they will turn into a T, a C, or an N. My eyes turn red and I cry to the heavens for I realize that very rarely do I get to think the same thing that the paper feels the need to show me. My perfect writer world crumbles around me, beats me and pulls my teeth, and forces me to take a good look into myself. What is it that I write? Is it the things I imagine or is this paper forcing me to imagine things so I have excuses to stop imagining things? Could it be that I have got accustomed to conferences and now only feel safe in them, wrapped in their beautiful tinfoil dreaminess?
But a deadline is a deadline, a B can be a G, a T can be a Y, a P can be a Z, and as long as they make sense to someone, and that someone is not me, I’ll be decently fine. I must send this story as it stands or I die of hunger, thirst, horniness, and liveliness. Once it is released and out in the world, with no sweat and effort from me, perhaps, they will say how crazy I have become for writing something so foul, which is only natural because I am a writer that never sleeps or wipes. Or maybe, they will say what a genius I am for saying things in a complicated way for things that are not complicated in the slightest which is always the best way to say things and become famous in all kinds of socially minded literary circles. Or they will say, what a perfect story you have brought upon us and you, which means me, my dear writer brain, will be the only one who does not know what it is about or how it came to be.