I never promised you a rose garden…well, yeah a Hummer H2 and a beach house maybe…yes, and a villa in the south of France but I hold fast in my stance that I never promised you a rose garden. Rose gardens need water and love and care and I’m too busy pruning back your lies to the cuticles to deal with the growth. So there, go ahead and run off with that crusty old coot, the rich one that one that fucks like a creaky door. You can’t wait until I “make it.” Writing is too much of a “gamble?” Well, the bitch of the matter is that I already have “made it.” I’m the one on the cover of your conscience. I’m the one with the bestseller list tattooed on your brain. I am the one you feel scribbling on the insides of your eyelids when you lay down beside him at night. You see all of this is just a state of mind. Believe in me and it will be so…
3 comments:
I don't even know you and I fucking believe in you.
I think you have made it. You're an awesome writer. And just to prove it, that creaky door analogy made me shudder.
Fuck everyone who won't stick around and believe in you, they mean nothing. Of course I have no idea how related to your actual life this story is... there may be no connection at all.
Yes, I believe I will never fully understand the literary world. Science does that to people. But I do try.
Ty I am [BTB] and you can comment on my blog until your fingers catch fire and your computer melts into a gelatinous blob. That was your yo on the title...
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