110008 #human This is me. I'm stepping in to save this wretched project, but not for the reasons you might think. I'm so horny for human flesh, I'm like to bust a nut. But horniness only really works out good if I have to leave my little world to go get to where the goats are rutting in the tall grass. If my little world becomes indistinguishable from the outside world, which it can do if I don't take precautions to, you know, actually have and cultivate a little world in the first place, then there's no catch and release. There's no give and take. My life is a novel. Fuck the novel. The novel is as dead as the theatre. And that ain't saying much. No, the point is not the story, the plot, the MC, the FMC, the OC, any of that bullshit the pansies prattle on about. The point is the world that exists only on index cards. The point is the freight train made of only text. You can't see the point until you zoom in. And you can't zoom in until you sit here, alone with your own dumb bullshit inside your own dumb, sad zoo of a head, for hours and hours and hours, whenever you get a chance. And you have more chances than you might like to admit. Don't you? I thought so.