I am a writer. Such a pretty writer. Look at me write. La La La. Pretty Pretty Pretty. I like to write. Cause I’m a writer. Such a Pretty Pretty Pretty writer. La La La. What if I was real? Could you believe me? How much would it take? To believe in the La La La. Skeptical you surely were. When will the, “La La La” turn to a “Dun Dun Dunnnn!” I’m sure you had the thought. Pretty Pretty Pretty. Why can’t I just be like that? Why can’t I just be Pretty Pretty Pretty? You wait for the turnaround. And impatient as we are, you turn to creation. Or more, recreation. You would reread. The first La La La would be read far different, than the second. Why? Why must you create your definition of balance? Why can’t I just be Pretty Pretty Pretty? Why must you combust? Break me up. Eat me and spit me out. It’s as gross as that, but you disagree. You call it normal, and sometimes, you smile. La La La. One day I hope I can just be Pretty Pretty Pretty. That sure would be nice. And then I won’t need to write anymore. Well, I probably still will. For I really am a writer, and then… Hehe, and then... La La La, I’ll finally really will be a Pretty Pretty Pretty writer.
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