I am the person cigarette companies hire to make smoking look good.

Writers are sadists. Good writers are masochists. Great writers kill people.

Its 3:19 am and I have two stories to write, totaling a word count of 750 combined. Items number one and two of the twelve million things i have to do before tomorrow, Saturday , my life ends and I am sitting here in my bed writing a blog instead. <--That sentence was awkwardly phrased but I'll keep it because it rhymed a little. Needless to say, tomorrow and the subsequent days will be delightfully painful, with barely any sleep and back to back engagements leaving no time for afternoon naps. Oh, how i love my cat naps. And I am so desperately longing for one right now. Or some coffee. Or a cigarette.

But I must suffer for my art...

Writers are sadists. We love the soft cries of animals in distress, children abused by drunk parents, car crashes and ambulance sirens. We like to pull of band aids and pick at scabs, ask people personal questions and watch them squirm. Its interesting.

I am guilty of making one too many wrong decisions consciously for the sheer sake of inspiration. Why yes, I would love to drink that cup of jet-fuel! Won't that make me interesting! It isn't enough to hear or even witness death by poison. By Jove, I want to experience it myself.

Great writers kill themselves.

I subject myself to all kinds of torture. I don't complain, I just describe it in stark accuracy. I do things I really don't want to do because it seems glamorous and i love glamor. Glamor and gore, I live for it. My life at the moment = no glamor and gore.

So I find myself now stumbling into some really bad predicaments and I'm agreeing to things against my better judgment. I'm the kid who lights the curtains on fire just to see what happens. And I'm shooting myself in the foot constantly, repeatedly, over and over again and to what avail? To your avail.

I live not for my will, but for the art that I can create.