Sacked....
 Canned. Pink slipped. Downsized. Mark Zuckerberged. Fired. I stopped saying the name, because I refuse to speak ill of the place [as much]. At least, I'm trying to cut down. I didn't deserve it, but shit happens. I'm only a player in a much larger story. Maybe it wasn't the right place for me. Womp womp. Now is always most important. I've been writing (Co-authoring? Editing? Penciling mustaches on?) my story for a while now. Professional writing has loomed in parenthesis for too long. The untrained eye sees dark skin and unemployment, but my vision has never been a strong point. My goal is to "make it" ( Whatever that means. Aren't we all technically making it until we die?) as a writer. If it can be done, I can do it. People write. I'm people. Unfortunate for you, reader, I need a place to write all my crap to get to the good stuff. Everything Picasso put on paper wasn't a masterpiece, take his tissues for example. Not to say I'm Picasso of the pen (have you seen my archives?), or that I wipe my ass with these entries, just that there is a certain amount of honesty over artistry that comes with this format. The low profile offers a certain seclusion, or privacy. Free to act out, here is my mirror to dance in front of alone. Almost. So while may or may not bust a move, I can promise that in my preparation for the big dance, there will be the occasional botched MJ impersonation. I plan on logging my quest, analyzing everything, experimenting, and coming up with better final list items on this b l o g. Filthy word, I don't enjoy saying it. I hope to one day look back at this all and laugh. If not then I'm sorry, future generations and self, but it all seemed hilarious at the time. I write about humanity as seen from my point of view. I have other formats for that lot. This is the view from ground level, my life. My life as a self proclaimed artist. There I said it. Artist.