One has to assert themselves in order to be successful.

Small societies are a figment of human imagination, created in order to help us cope with the vast world we live in. One cannot, "just be" and still be recognized. In fact, those living 'the contemplative' life are not revered as trailblazers but rather shunned as crazy. Those who find lasting, undeniable success in a world populated by 6 billion must be extroverts. If Shakespeare were born into this era, he most certainly would not be some reclusive writer penning scripts for plays or films, but a powerful actor/director making his own movies and calling all the shots. An extrovert of the highest order. Able to command multimillion dollar undertakings with the confidence and backing of the wealthy and the hearts and sentiment of the masses.

Hemingway's daughter, Salinger's son. Romantic, reclusive, whimsical writers of the past spread their genes to kids who gravitated towards Hollywood--draining air from the notion that these writers were all that introverted in the first place.

Great minds use the tools at hand. Great speakers use the words everyone else uses. Can there be any doubt that the authors of those beloved classics would still be just writing if they lived today?
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The fear of putting your self on the line is irrational. Made even more comical by this endeavor--words that no one reads. A self that won't be drawn out, to an ephemeral audience. Stemming from a fear of being singled out, when in soberest reality, it is utterly impossible.

The legal system will have its way with you like a child toying with a bug just before squashing it.

And judges and D.A.s won't budge. They stand behind this great procedure. This tremendous system that overpowers you. And it's comical to see how many fold when confronted with unreasonable power. Like bugs scampering from the malicious child's foot.

Streak broken Easter Sunday.

It's a waste for me to attempt to write a script. Any stories I write will undoubtably feature the permenently disfigured lone man as the protagonist. Proving that life's mishaps ill effects never cease.

Nothing is fair. The whole notion is bullshit. People get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars by insurance companies if they get rear ended and their knee hurts for a few months, whereas ordinary stiffs get paid squat for injuries sustained at work. My finger really hurts today. My countenance inadvertantly winces when I make a fist. The skin is open like a cut on the swollen folds. I try not to think that my settlement for reporting to work that day (my day off but another employee didn't show up) will be 1/100 the sum of others with lesser injuries--because they get paid for their pain and suffering and I don't. Their suffering disappears when money appears. My suffering continues forever. That one day, that one piece of furniture. That one slip, in that singular instant when I glanced out to the road, to see my boss picking up the bright orange triangles to warn oncoming traffic. His mannerisms peaved because someone had run over them. That one instant that I slipped and fell changed my life forever.

But no one likes a whiner. You should count your blessings they say, or be grateful (in the secularized manner) that you can still walk and aren't a vegetable and still have your finger. Fuck you. You're saying that because you're fine. This didn't need to happen. I still count my blessings--I take nothing for granted, I am grateful that I can walk. I just want my fucking finger back.