You want me to be an image from a dream you cooked up twenty years ago, stuck in time, in a fucking hologram or snowglobe where we are both two inches high and the rain falls the same every afternoon, just like God shakes it and right on schedule.  You’re an asshole for thinking God plays so regularly with his toys.

You, on the other hand, want me to be your narrator, to tell or at least approve your Stories.  You tend to find mine the Canonical ones, at least from this distance.  You’re an asshole for thinking I was paying that much attention.

And you, you want me in between you and the Gaping Chasm of Infernal Present that is the bed you’ve made and lay in.  Yeah, I get it’s not what you bargained for.  And I get that you get that.  And I get you have options for dealing with that.  But you’re a fucking asshole if you think I’m one of them.  ‘Cause have you noticed how everytime we share some space it’s all about you?  Yeah, well guess what — in my world, it’s all about me.  I’ve just been visiting, and I don’t think I’ll be renewing my pass.

And you?  You claim to want nothing, and you might even believe it, but I don’t fucking trust you, because nobody in their right mind would believe some shit like that.  Everybody wants something, and it’s the most painless option to just come out and name it, even if you don’t think you have the words.  You’re a fucking asshole if you think people live on some rarefied platonic Air.

You, you just wandered by, and I hope I’m amusing, and maybe even interesting, and maybe even have something to contribute, but I would be doing you a grave disservice if I ever gave you the impression I was in any way detached from my own narrative and my own imperatives, was in any way seeing with clear vision or from any higher perspective, was in any way not carding my own wool as I wove a story for you to read.  And you know what?  I think that’s more honesty than you’re likely to get around here and more than you probably signed up for.  You’re a fucking asshole if you think I’m doing it out of sheer disinterested benevolence, or ars artis gratia.

And you? You don’t know me yet.  But you should. Because I have fingerpaints and Mountain Dew and miles of craft paper.  I have a snowglobe and it is broken and what’s left of the water is a little yellow, but there are painted horses and some meadow inside and sometimes, if you thunk the base just right with the heel of your hand, it plays two notes of a song I think I might like to know the rest of.  You don’t know me at all, but that might be best of all.