That purveyor of opinion, the petulant petty child. That editorializer opining her mind while we all pine for better days. So headstrong, I strongly suggest she head to an early grave so that I may give this world a better review than she is to do. That wretched wench calls us hot garbage as we speak to the truth of the matter. Oh how she comes in like a wrecking ball in that spectacularly grossly gray zone between news and art, oh how it makes me moan that I should want to be shown those mindless ramblings which to my mind are scrambling. A greater world out there somewhere exists where there is news and art and nil much more to say. Opinions are like armpits. They smell like onions and, unlike the ogres eating them, they lack layers. Layers and layers for the players of life, who is the thought for, dear writer? The variety in art, the openness to interpretation. The purposeful mindlessness of news, to read and inform. The vain editorial of the writer who feels herself in form, closed to the interpolation of perspective. Peddling sense like the cents rattling in her pocket, with the nonsense of the smeared receipts she must push out of sight and mind to find those fledgling scents that counter stink to no end like the little tree freshening the car. Why must you write? For who must you write? Do you even know? No, you don’t.
Haven’t I opinions too? I’ve expressed one here more plain and true. Shouldn’t it be more honest that I don’t hide behind the aesthetics of reason like I’m dodging charges of treason? Shouldn’t the reader know me better, trust me higher, understand me greater? I’ve laid out my self, my emotions, my opinions in smooth array like a pavement slater. Yet I’m slated for an accusation of self-indulgence as if I’m creamy like cake, the sin on the seder. Why can’t they see that it’s the honesty within me that’s been well thought out and freed. I’ve searched the cracks and crevasses in my glacially drifting thoughtscape. It’s frozen and moving over time in my mind and I’ve well excavated it down to snow. There are no more ice breakers when it comes to my intimate knowledge of self, just snow angel makers not cream cakers. Why can’t they see the honest woman in me? I’ve laid myself out bare, but wrung out to dry by all those nay-saying and yay-saying straight shooters laying out their salty surprises in our unbeknowing eyeses.