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Dear Wastedhatwix,
You might be everything you say you are; in that case, we just might be able to do something. Abnormal, simply away from the middle 2/3 of the slush pile. And I am way way out there, about three standard deviations; you pick which side. But, so far on this infernal site--besides one door- pounding PhD maniac and one borderline, it's all fizzle. Just a bunch of half-dreamers who've got some half-assed persona they're not even half a continent close to living, let alone being able to fake it for an hour in person. And believe me, I've tried.
You might just be the real thing. I've had a lot of fun doing the searches under the usual words that were funny "Ivy," "slut," "biped" "smart," "creative,"--stuff I tend to like, and plugged in "genius." Finally, right, I got honest. Should I have tried "humble" or "enlightened" or "funny when hit by lightening"? Fuck if I know.
You claim you like tenacious people. Tenacious? Addictive? Obsessive? You have no idea. I'll tell you why I do it: everything I do gets chewed up and spat back out as art. You, too; right now. This is my book. You are my book. Does that entice you? Do you want to see my book? See your place in it? I touch a thing; it becomes brilliant; I think a thing; it is. Megalomaniac? Only to tempt you towards me, but not. Sociopath: not. Dangerous: could be, have been. 'Member, you're the one who claims she bites, not I. (I'll remember that, and blame myself later.)
You're wrong: more than 50% change is for the worse. About 99.9% is always for the worse. To do any good, you've got to be that last little percentage. The rest is just the seaweed and crap that rolls up on the shore. But, hell, every beach needs its mound of pretension and desire.
Rebelling for the sake of rebelling, which you bring up, is just dumb. Reread your Kant about that under Genius--of all things! Of course you're just scared to shit that you're really just sorta average, after all, and might even just chew off the hand that feeds you just to prove for a weekend in hell that you're not.
Face it: you're another sodden brilliant romantic, like me, who's fucking yearning for the real thing, not just some jackass water-based paint that'll peel off your third step put on by the jackass who put it there.
I don't need to go anywhere or do anything. Skip the travel. Skip the this. Skip the that. (But mind the dentist.) I make up (and write down) one world after the next. And you're part of it now.
Know a genius; write me; stop screwing around.
Egbert
# 91
