Kiko. The writer. I wish.

The last time I tried to pass written work off as my legitimate contribution to humanity I found my work mauled to the point where I couldn't identify it without DNA matching.

Looking back, the piece was that horrid anyway.

I must admit however, that sometimes the words DO flow from my mind, through my pen, and on to the paper in a mad rush. These are the times when I feel that I'm at my best and no one can touch me, literary genius that I am.

Unfortunately for me, I happen to write my best work when I'm really depressed or upset or suchlike. When someone feels upset, what goes through one's mind is mostly hate, anger, and steam. That's what goes through my head. Somehow that steam gets transferred into energy for my fingers. Strange, but true. I guess this explains the large gap between this and my last post.

So it is that when I pour on the vitriol that the words just seem to come together, head to toe, one mighty blast of writing after another. Otherwise, it's a bloody struggle. After all, it's hard to be depressed when your day job is getting stuffed into the Michelin Man suit on Mondays, the Pillsbury Dough Boy suit on Wednesdays, and the Stay-Puft Marshmallow suit on Saturdays. At least I get a job wearing a red suit by Christmastime, but I digress.

Here's to lost time.