roommate

My roommate's a writer.

2 types of people exist that fascinate me and it's rarely the type that brings up having gone to Harvard,

nor the type that "writes"

My roommate, who isn't either of those 2 thing but proclaims to be one of them

Is the type of "writer"

to think it's better to have written than to write.

"So is it better then, to have busted a nut than to Be busting a nut?"

We both remember the time I walked in on him prematurely and forget all the times a mid afternoon nap was walked in upon.

My friend, the roommate, is the type of writer that makes me wish I'd been warned when learning how to read. .

He's the type I both sometimes wish would just let the self involved misery consume him and finally just FUCKING DO IT

And

The type that after 3 or 4 rough drafts later, (dozen) the suicide note left would be so... Just..

Had it by miracle not become a pile of mush from its own self stroking ejaculate,

And by another miracle not been eaten by his invisible unpotty trained feline fuck tard demon spawn pet he pretends doesn't exist since cat's aren't allowed here,

Then

That suicide letter/ essay/ picture book

Would be so immediately insufferable that the crayon dustings and font changes alone- the headache from the eye roll that could not would not be contained from the first glance at such a Pompous post-mortem page of self pitying

But I digress

My friend, the WrItEr

Is certainly one of the reasons I shit blood like It's something I'm good at