Heh.

How cynical can you get?

For I am real cynical right now. As cynical as can be. So much that I am secretly proud of myself about it. I mean, I have achieved the prowess of taking anything from innately mundane to extraordinarily beautiful and twisting it in my mind to make it look like my cousin's pet dog's excreta. Nice no?

Shit man. I can't write for nuts. The funny part is I've known that for so long and I still keep going at it. Thats also the sad part. Most lame ass attempts at poetry in the history of blogging; for that matter, history of literature; of the world; of everything. Another funny thing is that I will keep going at it. And some time later write another angry rant about how I, in general, suck. Write. God, this is so hilarious already. Please let me die of laughter.

No one reads it though. Thats a consolation. There is a very dismal satisfaction in the fact that the world does not see your worst. Not much of it anyway. Why, then, am I not writing all this on a notepad file?

See what I mean? Hilarious.

Poor blog though. What rubbish it has had to digest. My only listener, my so called friend, you moronic piece of pathetic web-shit, I am sorry. So sorry.

The problem with being a lonely cynic is that you have no one else to criticize but you. The problem with living life is that it does not come with a backspace button. The problem with being me is that I cannot get the heck out of this place. This nightmare. The problem, my dear blog, my faithful reader, is yours.

All literature is consolation. Sigh. This is not literature then.

My only listener, my so called friend, is this cynical enough for you?