"Fate. Destiny. Fatestinaty. People toss these words around like tennis balls. Well, I eat balls for breakfast. I know my purpose is righting wrongs. I'm the wrong writer. But I don't need you to call me that. I have special needs. Just call me..."








My life is one series of ironic events after another. I sleep every night because it is trendy, but I don't actually rest. Resting is sincerity and honesty, it's a thing that grounds us to the core of being human and refreshes the senses, which obscure minds have ruled out as "completely and totally ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥". And so, even if my eyes are squeezed shut and my chest heaves gently with the rolling march of involuntary function, I am not at rest. I am simply in a stage of incoherence. Every morning I wake up and drink water, and I smile while doing so, as the central idea of drinking water is done to alleviate a sincere bodily need: thirst. I do so out of artistic and authorial humor. The idea of thirst is is not so much manufactured as it is something to be overcome through the power of irony. My day progresses in this fashion, while I contemplate how tomorrow I can further overcome my own sense of irony and the profound lack of genuine interests in my own life.