I’ve been reading what others wrote about me.
People wrote some really nice stuff.
They thought I was incredibly nice and inspiring. They thought I was full of hopeful dreams and bright beliefs. They thought I was sweet and loving.
They were wrong.
I rub body parts and demand nudity. I believe there is no such thing as failure. I think every thing can be made into a reason to laugh. I think it’s important. Sickness. Death. Handicap.
I appreciate everyone’s attempt to be nice. To make me out to be something special.
But I’m just boring me.
Plain old boring me.
In my underwear.
The not-clean ones.