3.28.2003

 

Writing. Hmm.

I wish I understood what makes people respond to things I write with such enthusiasm (I usually know what provokes those vitriolic responses, and I while don't shy away from them, no one likes a screaming match). If I did, I'd slap 350 pages together, call it a book, have someone fly me around the country to little book stores and meet all sorts of people who want nothing more than to worship me, take a picture with me and have me write my name illegibly in their book. And I've already got that whole "writing illegibly" thing down to a science.

I'd write more about sex, about things that make me horny, little fantasies in my head, things among the like. Or I could write more political commentary and talk about the things I think people overlook when airing their thoughts. I'd talk to my toilet more, or, if I really thought it feasible, I'd fly my ass to London, barge my way into Victoria's Secret headquarters and beg them to hire me as a photographer (and yes, I do have a photography background and could talk shots like those featured in the catalogue). Then I know everyone like me would unendingly worship my ass.

I would do all these things.

But then I'd screw it all up.

And the pressure, the feeling like I have to perform. To come up with fantasies, brilliant bathroom conversations, insight into the amorphous political debate. I don't know, I couldn't handle it. I'd pour over my words, always trying to polish them up and make each post better than the last. To give you all a reason to keep coming back here.

But I hate editing myself. And to tell the truth, I don't have time to worry about my performance.

So I think I'll just keep writing the same old shit here that I always have. And if that sucks, well hell, at least you'll always have the Vicky's pictures.

And just for the record, I expect anyone who tries out any fantasies or other things I put up here to give me the full story.