I can say some of the most uplifting, optimistic bullshit; and ruin it just as quickly. Optimism just ain't my style. There's a good chance I'll unintentionally hurt you; I could easily be your best friend. I'm creative and often get so filled with incentive to do something, anything, that I become paralyzed and can't breathe. I'm ambitious; I procrastinate like crazy. I want to win the Pulitzer Prize someday; I'm fucking terrified I will. I'd rather be dumped than do the dumping, but it often works in reverse. "Am I the star under the stairs? Am I the ghost up on the stage?" I'll be your everything before I let you be my anything. I'll make the pretense of opening up, baring my soul but I won't even come close. My self-portraits barely even graze the surface. I'm a bottomless pit of disaster, marred promise gone tragically awry; save me?
Maybe I'm just fucking insane.
