i am so not cool

i have a dog & my dog barks all the time & my dog doesn't listen to me & my dog would rather roll around in the alabamaz dirt than sit near me...

i read thought catalog  articles about hipsters & can't decide if i'm a hipster or not & know deepdown if i were a hipster i wouldn't be conflicted about my identity or maybe i would?

i am no longer twenty

i am no longer twenty but sometimes forget & go to the bars

i am no longer twenty & didn't have the books of poetry published when i was

i am no linger rimbaud & never really was

i am no longer twenty but sometimes forget & go to the bars & get drunky

i have a picture of my dog that makes him seem like he's drunky & i'm no longer twenty

i'm no longer twenty & i forget and go to the bars when ovulating

i know when i ovulate & when not

almost every sentence of this post begins with "i"

i'm not trying to be meta, yo

i don't try to be meta but it just comes out that way...

here is a Meta portion from my book, Homegirl! Homegirl! is wayway cooler than mama & doesn't call itself mama:

Meta tried to pick up this Homegirl chick at a bar but b*tch gave him the wrong number or else she was too drunk and couldn’t remember her own cell number, which is a very good possibility.

Meta, like everyone else, easily gets bored with their own FB updates.

Meta is one of those FBers who comment on their own FB status updates. Not because Meta has no friends but because that’s how Meta roll. Meta also doesn’t find talking about Meta in the third person the least bit awkward.

Homegirl oh my god, my head.

Homegirl wants to know if you know any publishers or agents or even interns or an intern’s intern or the people responsible for Twilight’s popularity. Or Goth minions looking for a mistress/author.

Homegirl is going to get a tatt that says "deirfiúr" and will tell anyone who asks it means "deflowered."

Meta likes If you think writing about writing is so 1990, I will cut you, If you think meta-fiction’s seen its day, I will kill your dog and also make every day of your life just slightly less pleasant by one unnoticeable increment til you gets to the point where your less pleasant day is your standard for pleasant, and I bet this pickle can get more fans than yo mama.

Homegirl likes, Omg, leave me alone, my head and Go get mama a highball and quit your crying cos Santa ain’t real.

the end,
ryder