La Muselivre

And I am a writer -- I always knew that, as I sat toiling in front of my keyboard, I was slowly dying, word by word. I have always known my art was killing me and now it is acknowledged that I am, indeed, dying for my art. My art, along with the countless other hours spent online, hocking my grandmother's knick-knacks on eBay or surfing for the perfect set of mammaries to serve as my digital muse. With every second I spend bleeding my words on the screen, for my loyal fans, which I hope to have someday, I am dying. How fucked up is that? I am dying for them and for my art. And all I have to show for it is credit card debt and writer's block. How fucking romantic is that? As if it weren't thorny enough facing the possible rejection by the public of the thoughts and memories I hold so dear in my writing (and you should too), I am risking more than just a public judgment at the hands of my peers. Now I add death to my list of critics who eagerly anticipate when my will shall expire leaving nothing but my heart and soul on the computer screen. (Mental note: be certain to save more often in the event of a sudden aneurysm.) That's a new angle I can add to my middle-class, white-bread life. I finally have a struggle! And it's death by computer!

(Via Maud Newton)