W H Y Y O U S H O U L D W R I T E

you can only write what you know. either you know how to make stuff up or you know how to tell the truth or you know how to research or you know how to ask questions or string words together but those words fall out of your brain and your brain, though argued by internet and MTV, is Y O U. That brain is every thought you've had and will have and might think of having and that brain is all that separates you from the next person, and doesn't every person want to be special? but how do they expect other people, just as brain-filled as them, years from now after the aforementioned brain is nothing but goo and has been eaten and turned to ashes by the inevitable monsters of the world--how does one brain expect a future brain to know it is something of tangible substance and interesting individuality if that brain has left nothing but potting soil for the tin can buildings of tomorrow? so what are these brains supposed to do, then? write down everything. the lies and the truth and the pretty and the ugly and all they'll ever be is creative non-fiction, even if they say they are the elephant of the parkinglots and the aligators of the mini vans or the monsters of the squash plots--their brains cannot lie to them, so if they think it, it must be so. And no one will ever think in the same way as someone else and writing down those thoughts is the only way we brains can roll out of our skinnyfatwhiteblackjewishatheistsame-bodies and stand up, proving we're more than our looks, our clothes, and our mothers and fathers--something that's sticky, that'll last--prove there was once a human race that ruled the internet.