Monday, April 5


So it seems that art is no longer about honesty and truth and hard times and therapy (because, really, when was the last time you saw someone who was an untortured artist?).

Via the lovely georgia (in response to my 'rape' poem):
But if some body has been raped, they usually like to forget about it, and are VERY affected by it, and don't go round telling everyone
Also:
that was a corny poem
...even if he did get raped he should not tell people about that on message bords he should just keep it 2 himself!!...u must be a FREAK OF NATURE...and tellin everybody that u'r raped is'int gonna help u in the future...
I find myself wondering why I bother with anyone under the age of, oh, dead. (I was going to say 30 when I realized that the man who raped me was of that age and there's also a lot of nasty old guys who think 17 year old boys are 'fun.' Really, I'd just rather not deal with people at all.)

I also find myself wondering, for the millionth time, why I write. I don't write well; it doesn't seem to be helping me much, and it's certainly not helping anyone else understand why I am the way I am (as if they care); it's not changing the world and it's just not worth my time anymore.

Your line is: Cry me a fuckin' river, Julian.

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