Disoriginalism

I am truth’s worst enemy, I am a clever writer. The sun, the moon, the stars, the hopes and dreams and fears of a billion people and a thousand deities are at my whim, but I make them dance. Everyone dances in my universe; everything is taken with a grain in salt and a tongue in cheek. Nothing is serious, nothing is sacred.

I chose this profession because it enabled me to play God. A fact for which I’m certain God is upset with me about. I pretend I’m doing him justice by reflecting reality, but it’s only a spoof.

I am a thousand writers who came before me’s stolen ideas.

Love is a spoof in my universe.

Life and death are different strokes of a brush, trivial, inconsequential outside of my imagination.

I take everything in this world. The green grass, the blue sky, the red blood beating in our veins, I mix it up into a giant bowl. Then, I sprinkle in speckles of spirituality, hope and loss, youth and age, wisdom and pain. I stir it all up, and place the bowl on the ground. Then I shit in it.

This is what it means to be a clever writer.

I shit on all that you hold dear. Every heartbreak you or I have ever had is fodder. Dreams, child-hood aspirations are swept away with a scoffing rebuke and these gain the loudest laughs of all.

I am without a doubt, the most conceited person that you will ever meet. No wonder I complain of being lonely. No one could tolerate me but me.

What amuses me most is cultural pride. I smirk seeing flags waved on passing cars. People wave and smile and honk, celebrating a common piece of dirt that bore them. This dirt is from Puerto Rico. This dirt is from Taiwan. This dirt is from Palestine. HOLY SHIT YOU HAVE TO DIE

Adam came from the dirt. And so did all of us.

This is why I make fun of us. This is the function of the jester in any society since the dawn of time; to remind us that we all came from, and will return to dirt.

The descendants of the dear canine friend you played fetch with in the park this morning will urinate on your minerals one day.

Why am I a clever writer?

Life is meaningless in my universe.

I am Mr. Future Melanoma.

In many ways I am already dead.
I am a clever writer, an anti-America American, the smallest fraction of a genetic irregularity, I am the ultimate minority, I am the rebellious 7th grade kid with dreadlocks and black skin shouting at his teacher to fuck himself, only I am doing it on a cosmic scale.

I am a smartass writer. Hear me roar.