Enough Melodrama

 I mean it. Adjective soup comes in plastic bags. Milking that metal udder. Anything lyrical seems trite, embarrassing. Quaint? An inept deception. Anything less than lyrical seems stilted and over precise. I hate myself in text. I despise the writer. Of course, of course, this is because words fail at communicating anything except words, and not any real self hate because, please, who could dislike this handsome beast. 

Self portraiture may be the most subversive art. The man behind the curtain isn't pulling your strings. He's lost in a staring match with a mirror.