I’ve always wondered what it would be like to get to a point where everything written by me would, in its own crude and unrefined way, be considered a moving account of an event experienced by someone who could let it all hang out without sanding off the rough edges and brushing away the parts that make me look less than glowing.
I hope some day to be one of these fearless scribes who uses pure truth undiluted by fragile ego or waves of crippling fear to hack down all the heavy foliage that surrounds the land of good writing but apparently I got sidetracked at the village nick knack shop that sells useless shit to tourists.
So much for my deep revealing Kurtz moment up the river.
I don’t have any epic ambition to be the brutal harbinger of absolute honesty minus the much-needed edit, it’s just that I envy the writer who is able to toss the hovering ego out the window and tell a tale so harrowing and laid bare that it leaves you gutted afterward.
Here’s an example .
And so after many long and sorrowful years the vivacious princess with the chestnut ringlets burst forth from the confines of the gilded cage that had been fashioned for her by the slow-witted and narrow-minded captor and boarded a slow-moving freighter headed south.
Version Dufmannos’ ex boyfriend tells minus fairy tale characters.
That fucking bitch left me flat without batting one of her whore eyelashes, boarded a train and headed RIGHT into the arms of that other guy who has been sniffing around here.
See the difference?
You can almost smell the peppermint and cotton candy scent wafting off me as I skip away merrily weaving my sugar coated version for public consumption. I probably left a trail of rhinestones and glitter in my wake.