People write ballads about themselves when they’re sad. I write arsey stories.
I’m sick of reading drivel-soaked writing that drones on about “the pain I’ve been through”. Get over it man. Get over it. Move on and make space for new experiences.
There’s this girl who writes poetry about the men who flogged her spirit.
Another extols the virtues of another drippy sod’s writing. ‘wah! What poetry… I’ll open a swiss account on the kakka he drops’.
Then another blubbers because the cat didn’t poop.
O forget it. Dumper trucks.
Feeling particularly trashed.
About shit and shit.
[so who arsed you to read that crap poopy H?]
That’s it. I’m off.