I don’t want to write right now.
And of all the many things I don’t want to write at this moment, I think what I most not want to write is this sentence right here.
I hate this sentence.
Everything about it.
Its length, its wording, that fact that it’s coming from my keyboard.
I despise it all.
And if there is anything on this entire planet that I hate more that that sentence up there, I think it must be this one right here.
Because the only thing worse than a despicable series of phrases, is a second one, drawing attention to the first.
In fact, it wouldn’t be too much to say that this entire article is fully loathsome from beginning to end.
So much so, I can’t believe I am still writing it.
But on I go, in a senseless display of literary self-torment.
I don’t do this merely because I am a sick and twisted individual, addicted to my own pain.
No it’s worse than that.
I do it because I practice a very specific type of masochism, known simply as Writing, and with this particular disorder the only thing worse than to indulge in it, is not to.
Don’t feel sorry for me, I have enough self-pity for us all.
That is all.