I wanna write about writing. Something thats been a part of my life since I was 5. An aptitude I only discovered when I used to write for the school newspaper. I remember my teachers coming up to me after reading my articles and telling me how much they enjoyed what I wrote and the style of writing. “Ballsy and direct”. They say I had a way with words and that I would make a great writer. That I should consider a career in journalism. I smiled, nodded, and left to Denmark to play football. Truth is all my teachers hated me, cause I was the class clown. A proud one too. I’d make my friends laugh and piss off the teacher. Little did I know that one day i’d become one. I never gave two shits about my teachers or getting in trouble. I remember them looking for the slightest excuse to kick me out of class. In all honesty, now that im a teacher, if i ever come across a student like myself, they can pray to heaven that there’s no corporal punishment. I’d whoop anyone who acted the way i did. No wonder my teachers hated me. But the feeling was mutual. Specially Ms. Sarah. I remember her telling me that if I didn’t come back to her class, she would pass me. Deal! I had the biggest crush on her. Then again, who didn’t!? I actually asked her out once, but that’s a whole other conversation. Yes, I was 14 and she kindly rejected me so fuck you. I was never the one to get good grades. I was happy just getting by. I was a very consistent student. Always a “C” or a “D”. Never seen an “A” in my life and “B” was rare. In fact the only class I ever got an “A” on was called “Boys Project”, and that was an elective where all we did was talk about sex! All teenage boys, all virgins, talking about girls, sports and mischief. That was my happy place. The instructor Tony was the coolest dude ever. I caught him smoking pot in the bathroom before a class. I knew right then and there that I was getting the “A”. So the reason I never persued a career in journalism was the unimaginable thought of writing for someone else. If i’m not inspired to write, I wont write a damn word. If anyone tells me what to write about, when to write it and how to write it, i’d just smile, nod and stick the typewriter up their ass. Not that I own a typewriter. My writing is for me. It’s not for anyone. Not for you either. I don’t care whether people read what I post or if they “like” it. Writing is my therapy.  The empty page is a friend of mine that I can tell anything to without ever being judged. I don’t care if I offend anyone with my writing. I never target an individual. Don’t flatter yourself, nobody is that special. I’d either target an idea or a group. If you fall under that group or believe in that idea and take offense then fuck you. No seriously, fuck you! You’re exactly the problem and i’d have no mind telling it to your face. But in all honesty, I wouldn’t waste my breath. The world is bigger than your selfies, bigger than your looks or your hair, bigger than your hashtags, your likes, your followers, bigger than you. If I feel your ego, I have no problem in bringing you down and putting you in your place. Oh and, don’t ever get into a war of words with me. You will lose. Words are my friends and I love playing with them. I’m a goddamn wordsmith. I love to tell stories. I live for them. And I have many. These words will be the only proof that I ever existed. I will eternally be alive in the world of the internet. I will live forever. This is how I will get to immortality. Everything I do in life is a cause to gather material for the next story. Everywhere I go there is an adventure waiting for me. An adventure waiting to shared with the words that come alive within me. My adventures make my writing. My writing brings out the adventures in me. And that is the cycle that feeds me. Without it, i’m nothing. That is why everything I write shall be a masterpiece. And my masterpieces shall never die. For that, I will never die.