this is one of those things

where you don't stop typing no matter how utterly retarded you sound. instead, you lose your inner-editor that holds you back and keeps your from your blogger opus. here, in my stream of consciousness, my art is laid bare, and its got 6-pack abs and a huge wang. here in the click, click, click, its hot and sweaty and ready to do some dirt. the thing no one tells you about this exercise is that maybe when you are laid bare, you're art looks roughly the same way you do naked. just normal, because that's what stream of consciousnnes is, the way you normally think. the editor that keeps you from writing is right--you are better left to doing laundry, watching marathons of Law and Order SVU, and not picking up your dog's shit. maybe your editor is right and you are an ignoramus and even if you had something of use to say, your prose fellates goat dick and you are better off just keeping your insights to yourself. perhaps you are right, and what we call life is not only completely void of intrinsic meaning, but also completely insustainable and maybe even fundamentally immoral. maybe you are better off writing about a) what you know the most about, B) is only thing with a vocabulary trucated enough for your void of talent, and c) is already considered low-brow. maybe you should just start writing about the blonde in the corner that keeps crossing her legs whenever you glance her way, showing you her lack of panties. maybe you should confess to the online world about eating her in the bathroom while i lightly finger all i really want from her--her asshole. spiting on it, licking it, then trying to hit it before she turned around and told me i had the wrong hole. so again, just like your writing, your sex life is normal and without renown. so stop writing, because your editor--which is you, you sack of rotten foreskins--is 100% right about everything he said.

now, be a good waste of resources and go play some Halo 3.