So here's what I think.

You got yourself in a predicament here and you're none-too-sure of how to handle it. On the one hand, you got me and you think I'm the fuckin' bees knees or whatever you future-kids wanna call it these days, but on the other hand, you're too scared to stick me in that game you already play that you love so damn much and you're too chicken shit to go find me another place to live outside'a this pink shit hole you got me sitting in. That ring a fuckin' bell, friend?

Well that's just too fuckin' bad, because I got no suggestions and I'm not in the mood to play "pull my strings" with a highs-and-lows motherfucker like you. You gonna get me shot? Gonna stick me in some post-apocalyptic wonderland full of kiddies with superpowers and rusty knives? No thanks, man, I ain't into it. Gimme a real job and I'm in. Gimme a good ol' gun and a well-planned heist to sink my fuckin' teeth into and I'm all over it, but I'm not gonna play cops an' robbers with a bunch of zombie boys in blue and nurses with pussies for faces.

Can't say I feel bad for you, pal. Find me a place that "clicks" with me and I'm there. I'll let you hear all the fuck about it. But what I won't do is do your work for you, so get out there and get me someplace outside your head already. You're not gonna find any pity here. And get me some fuckin' coffee while you're at it.

I don't even know what to tell you. You drag me out here for no particular reason, you sit on a couple'a names that I'm supposed to occupy for any given amount of time without ever knowing if you're coming back, when you're coming back, or what your motives are? You know, that kinda thing sounds really fuckin' familiar and I don't like it. I'm calling bullshit before you even get started, because I'm not putting up with your "I'm dragging you out because you amuse me and you're gonna dance like a puppet with my hand up your ass" antics. Sorry pal, but that's just not gonna fly. Go find yourself another tool, because I ain't fuckin' buyin' it.

And another thing, don't you even think for a second that you can even keep up with what goes on in my head, because you can't. There's not a lotta big thinkers out there, and you, for one, are not one of them. You're slow as anyone else out there. You think you can grasp the complexities in life and spill 'em out with that splash of "me" that you need to get me out there in one of those stupid games you waste your life melting your fucking brains over, but there's no possible way you can even begin to comprehend what's going on in the real world enough to be me. You're just... just trapped in your little bubble, pissing away on writing enough to publish a book, but never doing jack with it. So here's an idea, if you're so smart: Publish a real fuckin' book. The subterfuge is thick enough to suffocate in- how many damn fictional people are you hiding behind? Eventually you gotta think that life's gonna find you and come back to bite you in the ass.

And quit callin' me Pink.