I can feel it again. Like the wind in my hair on a sunny day. The urge to write. The need to speak. I almost feel nauseous from it, like a sickness of euphoria as this electric emesis forces its way out my fingers onto keyboard. I am bursting with bad thoughts again. I am screaming in silent syllables.
I have been dealing with this horrible feeling for the past year or so – I had fallen out of love. It was something I didn’t really want to admit to myself. After a string of tragic events, I could feel the fading. I had been so in love with Fuck Feast for five years, with the thrill of the chase of the perfect and most upsetting blog posts I could possibly write. It defined me, really – waking up, writing every day, being deviant and mischievous on the Internet.
Then something bad happened, and Fuck Feast didn’t make sense anymore. It hadn’t made sense for a long time, and a few months ago I summoned the courage to admit to myself: this is over. And it should be over.
But it doesn’t have to stop.
Let’s fall in love again. And again, and again, and again, and again. Won’t you join me? Hand in hand, and straight down to Hell?