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Watching ep. 4 of Marc Maron’s show and poetry lady waxing off on her creation and that made me think of my recent failed dream of being a slam poet. Poetry muthafucka! I realized I do not want to hear myself read my poetry because I would hear the pretension and possible inauthenticity of it. I worry, no, dread the epiphany and full realization of what I really sound like, what “art” I am really creating. What if it’s like one of those annoying precocious kids who try to impress everyone. “Oh, look at my vocabulary and wit, me so smart.” Frankly I think I’d rather a blowjob than accolades, if I felt anything during it besides warm humming (that’s right they  better hum something, like the 1812 Overture). But the idea of speaking these poetic words of mine or even trying rapping like all those suburban white kids that still dream of champagne showers and Escalades. I silently shudder at finding out the truth of my warped self-image, the clarity of my egotism, the benefaction of honest auditory revelations. I’ll stay cooped up in my safe blog hole trumpeting notes from the underground. I’ll be voiceless Ariel looking for love and affection one bit at a time.

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