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Four hours of sleep, a pipe filled with weed, a cigarette and a large coffee: my mind is working. My thoughts are getting ordered. I can write. I no longer fear what people will think. I don’t care if I get punished. Living in silence is worse. I was a mute for thirty-seven years. I did what I was supposed to. I got married. What the fuck was that about? I got divorced and she tried to take my sanity. What the fuck was that about, little miss ex-wife?
My point. I am done being afraid. I am done keeping quiet. I am done living like a coward. I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about me anymore. I just want to be Tom Hardie. Fuck off!
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Nope, that didn’t work. I still feel like crying. I think I’m going to bed early. Good night.
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“I was mute for thirty-seven years” what a beautiful line in such a lost paragraph.
“What the fuck was that about” – umm okay…I got the sentiment but the sentence is only powerful because of “little miss ex-wife”. Keep going Tom, work the satire more. That’s what people like. Be bigger! More sequins Tom, more sequins.
Hi, just read your blog and thought iy was cool. Im plenty interested, but i have a question: what authors did your read while you were researching this? Thanks Jim
Kerouac, Ginsberg, Whitman, Eliot