The idea of an audience for which I write limits me, instills fear and devalues the truth of my voice in the piece that I write. I refuse to believe that I stick your damn head in the oven forcefully, until a half an inch of your death. My angry, cynical, emotional pieces compel the reader to react. If reader, this causes a discomfort inside your luxury suite of a brain that stirs your heart or allows fuck, shit and damn to penetrate the suites security, and you shirk at the words in front of you on the computer screen what shall you do? An enema is always a sure way to clean out the "toxins" inside your body. You don't have to stop at one. Keep reading, because if you read to the finish it's like eating spinach, and you just might get layed by a lovely lady named Olive. Ladies, Olive possess every toy ever needed to simulate guy sex, no, hot guy sex.
When I write, I am the judge and the jury, and I'm accountable for simply a well written piece. Or not. As long as I use the word fuck in the right context, I refuse to grill myself. For the love of God, I hardly think about of one thing I do. For the love of fun and fury, I swim in the absurd and shit my pants. If the smell offends your nose or your then return to the absurd, but it's absurd for a woman my age to shit her pants. Ok, the cycle I propose leads back to reading my piece. Look around at the setting that surrounds you, and tell me that what I write hardly adds to depth of reality you swoon in, really.
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