My Writing Is Digital Dust
People talk about me. My family talks about my problems. The people on the Internet talk about how my writing isn’t very good. These Internet volk are right. My writing is a cheap trick. I employ intense themes, namely drug addiction and mental illness, then mesh it with oversimplified philosophical concepts. In turn, I create what on the surface appears to be a compelling read: drama with deep concepts. However, as most readers know, this is just a silly illusion: I’m just a suburban white girl with some serious issues and a high school-level understanding of Dostoyevsky’s Christianity and Nietzsche’s passive nihilism. To put it metaphorically, a comedian makes you laugh with a fat joke. But is that the art of comedy? Of course not. A good comedian doesn’t just entertain you and make you laugh, the good comedian also imparts wisdom. There is humor and an additive value that contributes meaning beyond the joke. Perhaps my writing entertains you, or makes you feel less alone or just less bored; so what? Your friends do that, too. So does Angry Birds. That’s not art. That’s just a banal transcription and a social reaction.
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Answer phones better than anyone else has answered phones before. Relay messages so brilliant, they bring people to tears. Turn the coffee run into the choreography of Swan Lake. Become best friends with every intern and every underling and every taxi driver you encounter.
I remember taking the pen and notebook from that woman outside the courtroom, flipping to a clean page in the book, and writing, JESSICA IS SAD in big, bold, uncoordinated letters. “My sister is going to be a good writer someday! Look at how nice her lines are!”
To begin, I got totally screwed over in the dental genes department. I was born with a pretty severe overbite and a mouth that was too small.
If this doesn’t become the biggest video on the Internet, then I have no faith left in humanity.