Should I start a podcast? I’m not sure I have very much to say. I speak often, with an unbridled tongue, but I’m not sure I have very much to say. One can only wax poetic over wounds and women for so long. My friends have a lot of patience, and they allow me my daily lament out of charity, and perhaps a bit of pity. A podcast, however? A podcast is crystalized, permanent. I reckon I could crank out one, maybe two episodes before I run out of things to say. They would be good episodes! I spin quite a yarn! I have created quite a romance about myself! But in the end I am always talking about the same old things. Sin is quite boring, and so am I.

But I am funny! Surely that will suffice, surely that will entertain. I don’t have to talk about myself (boring), I just need to make fun of everything else! (also, actually, very boring. probably more boring than me. self-hatred hides a twisted self-love) Am I even funny? Or am I just vulgar? Do I find things genuinely humorous or do I suffocate meaning beneath a veneer of cynicism as a form of protection from the world? My verbosity likely gives me away. I cannot allow anything to be what it is, pure and simple, without guile. This either bores me or nauseates me. I find most things corny and pretentious, and I must tear them down in order to prove that I am above such simplicity of heart. I am smart, I am self aware, I am set apart from the common crowd. 

What joy I forfeit! What peace I cast aside! And in the end, for what? I am not even funny. I sit alone atop the silo I have built to prove my superiority. I sit alone above the common crowd. I sit alone – a vulgar, cynical, unfunny man – without very much to say. Perhaps I will start a podcast, and say it anyways.