Why do writers write about normal people? Real life? Normal People are boring. Real is just a recipe normal people cook with.

Give me tastes and feelings I’ve never had before. Make me imagine them. Force on me a memory of dark and terrible things. Of strange appetites, of bizarre but unabstracted attractions.

Don’t dazzle me with your obession dear writer, gift me with the pure blood of your heart. If you choose to give your words to the world, then take a little responsibility and tell me sommething new, something strange. Something evil and exciting. Something I can’t quite digest, or percieve, but ache to consume. Repel me. Disgust me. Don’t paint. Carve away the cobwebs of my assumptions and show me the truth. Break the windows of my mind and scream that fresh taste of a good story down into my lungs.

Pummel me with mysteries. Leave me, not curious, but craving. Like a sharp cheese, nibbled and savored, your words need to tickle me with flavor, but never satisfy. Leave me wanting. Disect me into bits and scatter them on queer doorsteps, whose inhabitants can do what they will with me.

To you I surrender. Do not disappoint me. I come to you as a woman to her man: Unprepared, vulnerable, and uncontrollable. Keep your kind, pampering hands in your pockets and punish me for wanting your rich soil planted in me. Grow your wild forest, your bramble and thorn. Let the weeds take root in my body and mind and let me be the mulch that fertilize your words.

I am not a cow to be herded, nor a rat compelled. I will not be guided. Take me as a flood the obstinant bridge that dared cross over you. Drown me, and when I have transpired, force another, different life into me. Give me nothing but possibility and I will drink you until I am full, and then more. Until I become you.