Go Fish
It is 11:49AM on a Sunday. I had breakfast that I know I didn’t deserve. There’s no way I deserved the pleasure of eating breakfast that I didn’t enjoy. There are so many out there who deserve that meal more than I did. My day hasn’t even begun and I’ve already found myself wanting to pull my hair out of my scalp. That’s a metaphor of course.
Writing is supposed to be peaceful or even lonely. Sometimes your only audience is yourself. If 
you’re lucky enough it’s a guy named Ben.
I am a writer.
I am a writer who is caught up in the mainstream. This mainstream is not like a fucking fish net, and this caught up, is not like being trapped in it. I’m talking Dynamite Fishing. A fucking mainstream trap that causes explosions killing everything and fucking up anything it hits.
People who write for money over their very own passion are dead fishes caught in the mainstream that is the dynamite and are caught easy because they swim shallow waters in a school.
Shallow minds think alike, just as Great minds do.
Now, as grandiose as it sounds, I will go ahead and call myself a lone big blue whale. Not to say that I am better than anyone else, but I say, whoever is aware enough to notice this sad metaphor of mainstreams could go ahead and self proclaim their own powerful fish, or in my case, mammal. =P
“yippie kay ay mutha fucka”
*No offense to the many wonderful schools of fishies that color the big blue
CioPau's Symphony on synthetic paper 