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Writing Frankly

Poems and tits aside, let me state things frankly:

I am not a licensed dick detective. I'm a cock journalist without a lead. And even then, I only say it to make you think less of me. I want to surprise you! Delight you! Excite you! Because I can show you more than a good time. If somebody important told you that I was hilarious, I could have you laugh till you cry.

Unfortunately, I can't write about machines. I've got no structure that I can trust to treat my thoughts with the utmost respect. I think I am an outlaw. Shooting at you without a rifle, quick to write an apology. Because I haven't been sought after by my beloved lady magazines. I don't want to seem desperate, so I don't send them anything. But because I haven't, I question talent. Then again, it doesn't matter. I just can't talk to people when I have to win them over. I've heard that I have a fear of success. Which is awful, because you can't even succeed at a proper failure.

But I can successfully write about spitting on a dick with quick wit to whip you into a fit. I could talk about tragedies and theorems of human destitution, empathy distorted by narcissism corrupted. I won't. It's been said by others, more likely with apt persuasion but it's too sad for me to say again. It's not right for me to trick your tears while I use them to fan the flames of sympathetic notoriety. I'd rather have you think about stupid thoughts and indulge myself in a sea of passionate embers.

I paint for you with words, no less of an artist than one who wakes canvas.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

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Hope had left the gun on the table.

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In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…