Everyone in some way knows what they want to be when they become an adult and go into the real world. Granted, they may never live out their dreams. Or perhaps, they set their passion aside to do things more lucrative. Or their parents told them what to do and they listened like good little children. But after all that, there is still that one thing that resides within those people, in their blood, hiding in their hearts, passing through their system and waiting for the proper time to come out. And no, I don't mean cardiac arrest.

I associate that passion to become one's real self with "mid-life crisis", but that's another story. This entry is about my passion (no shit, it's my journal), and what it means to me.

I want to be a writer. I cannot say it anymore bluntly then that. To mold a picture with words, to tell a story, to express an idea with letters arranged in a bouquet of sentences, that is my goal. I don't claim to actually have any skill in writing though, the words are just my weapons to fight my war: versus self, versus reality, and versus sanity.

But furthermore, does it make me any less of a writer because I like to put "shit", "fuck", and "holy faggot ass butt spelunker" in my works? Is it wrong to talk of parodies, and how, yes, I write for you (and your mom)? I understand that to be recognized, I would have to write seriously, since it would be proper to assume that those who are critically acclaimed are the ones who write with utmost sincerety. But what if laughter was my sincerity? What if shocking the masses was the real me? Who then, is the one to judge me and tell me my literature will be great?

Maybe i'll just write articles for playboy.

"How to shit your pants and still look good for your hottie."