I want to go into the deepest ugliest part of me with my writing. I want to divulge all the secrets, expose all the indiscretions. I want to raise eyebrows and get reactions from my readers. I want to slap people with their own stupidity and wake them up in some primal poignant way. I want to rock the boat with my writing. I want to be controversial and upsetting. I want people to feel something when they read what I write. I don’t want to be nice. I don’t want to be well-behaved. I want to break the rules – my rules about what is good, right, proper and appropriate. I want to be a slut with my words, a promiscuous prostitute with my language. I want people to cover their gaping mouth when they read what I’ve written – then I want them to throw off their clothes and join me in the orgy of my story. Can I fire people up? Can I turn them on? Can I lose control long enough to free the words that will give others their freedom? Do I have the courage to be honest? To say how I really feel? To offer up my deepest self even if it isn’t pretty, popular or proper? Can I handle the confrontation – real or imagined – of what others will say and think of me? What would I write if I didn’t give a fuck about what other people thought? What if I wrote my unedited anger? What if I fired the press secretary, took the microphone in hand and started rambling? Would I be impeached in my own head? I want to be bold. I want to be wrong. I want to be embarrassed. I want to be misunderstood. I want to be censored. I want to be repressed by people who can’t handle what I am saying. I have a lot to say. I think there are so many fucked up things happening in the world. I need to go back into the fire of my life and write unawares. I have to stop being such a pussy.