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It’s Sunday, and I’m still hurting. It’s like I’m in constant ball-racking. My right ball.
I made the mistake, for the millionth time in my life, of trying to be funny and having it fall flat and some opinionated stranger taking it the wrong way. I hate that. I hate it when people can’t recognize that I am, at least, making a stab at humor. Those people have no sense of humor at all. I don’t want to live in a world that is serious and can’t laugh at itself.
I also don’t want to live in a world where people cannot understand the word, unpretentious. Stop reading stuff into my work! My stories are just stories. There are no great life-changing profundities in those pages. I am not William Faulkner or James Joyce, or anybody else. My stories are meant to entertain you, to let you escape into a world I create.
They’re just stories. I’m not out to prove anything.
That’s all. That’s what’s happening today.
