schmarty.

She was a writer. She was put here to write. I was put here to write. But I don't write. I edit. My red, red pen can see all of your lies and mis-speaks. My red, red pen tells the truth. The honest, brutal truth. Ouch eee waaah wah! That shit can fucking hurt. My red, red pen calls me out on shit. Sometimes. Other times, not. Other times, it sits on the desk and laughs at me. This isn't who I am. He said a ghost took over her, something was dead inside. That's what I've become. She said the same thing. A ghost took over. Scared////afraid. I've become her. And the only thing I can do is stare at my red, red pen and wait for it to switch.

I'm a smarty pants. A too-smarty-pants.

i can't