Wikipedia Says I’m Cool

I've been called vanilla, uninteresting, boring. But I have superpowers. These involve red wine, and texting late at night. I can see my demons in the dark. They say hello, promise to make tomorrow a better place, a gift I can't accept. I read a girl's profile once, she said, if you don't take care of your body, where will you live? I take another sip of wine, I've lost track of how many thousands have entered this body of mine.

There's a Wikipedia page, probably a joke, but isn't life. It has a layout like, "Birth" "Depression" "Disappointment" "Death". I think of myself in these terms. I read about Banksy, his propensity to be unique. Do I have these qualities? He doesn't even turn red under spell check. I think, if I made it big, I could have my name be real, like Microsoft puts chips in your vaccine and makes you a government clone.

Three things. The things that make me unique, different, an individual. One time at night I begged to be dead. I tried to name five things I wanted to live for, and named only three. Maybe these are the three things that make me unique. But they were all people. Do the constellations of personalities we surround ourselves with make our destiny? I lived, and I live for them. They are unique individuals. But do they make me, as a person, unique and interesting?

How many people have held the suicide hotline in their hands, on their nifty little iPhones, and cried because it costs too much money to go the ER? Does it take a hero or a villain to be that sick? Does it make me unique to have survived? Or am I one of thousands, millions, who have sat on the freeway and contemplated ending everything?

I think not. I think my personality is bland, white bread that has gone stale and no one cares enough to throw it away. Pity! That is my forte. There's one. I need two more.

The written word. I curse myself with my openness in my writing. It is too personal, too much. I bleed and I cut myself on the truth. But what is writing without bloodshed? I bleed. That is number two.

Number three is the combination of a white bread personality and blood. It is vanity. The assumption that once the perfect storm of written words hits, I am famous, someone's daily train of thought. I exist somewhere else. There is no such thing as white bread that bleeds. But I maintain my writing style, savvy only to those who need me.