I've become one of those characters who becomes outrageously depressed on the holidays. And who can blame me. I don't really have a family anymore. My friends are my family. Lacking love at home I always had to look for love out in the big, bad world. Such attempts usually ended in disaster, but I've finally had some success. Blood is thicker than water? Blood means nothing.
Seeking a mother's love out in the world. I was always jealous of people who fit in, people who were privileged enough to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.
But look at it this way: those people will live and die anonymously. I'll be great, famous. Possibly the savior of the human race. Because once I get the power to hit back I'm going to hit back hard and knock the Li'l Waynes of the world back to the hood.
I was born a genius, but the development of that genius is how I've compensated. That's how people like me compensate. We're late bloomers. Oh, I'll get the pleasures of the flesh! I'll see to that!
But would I really want to be famous in this time, to be chewed up and spit out? Well, then at least let me get paid for my work. Then money will be my compensation! Geez! I'm as much of a philistine as 50 Cent! Well, the only reason I want money is so that I can buy conformists and turn them into a harem and a toy collection. I want to own a whole farm of Herd Animals. Most human beings have no dignity anyway. They might as well be my property.
What's great about being a writer is I can have fame and anonymity at the same time.
How much curiosity do most writers attract nowadays.
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