You might as well just wipe your ass with a piece of paper and call it a work of genius.

769. That's how many friends I have on MySpace. 297. That's how many friends I have on facebook. 101. That's how many contacts I have in my phonebook. Unfortunately, I only care about a handful of them.
Since the beginning of the social networking sites, I've talked to hundreds of people that I've never even talked to in person or on the phone. Names I can't even remember, cities I've never even heard of, secrets I've never imagined before.
By now you might be wondering, "Why the hell are you telling me how many friends you have? Why are you telling me how little you care about the vast majority of these people?"
If you're reading this, you obviously are one of these 769, 297, or 101 people. Now I'm inside your head.
"Does he care about me?"
Fuck. No. I'm not afraid to step on people's toes. I don't give a flying fuck about you. Granted you might stop reading this now, but whose loss? Not mine because I don't care about you. I could care less about what you think about this writing, or even me. The good writers and expressionists don't care who they offend. The less talented writers walk gracefully on egg shells dodging every bullet with their words.
Now suppose you're still reading this. Shocker. I never figured you'd make it past the first paragraph. Since you're so interested I'm going to tell you my deepest secret. Granted it's not going to be for a little while.
Let's play a little role playing. You get to decide where I go with this. We're in a forest where the only thing that can hear you is the silence. I have a concealed weapon. You seem uneasy about things, but I'm just carrying on casual conversation with you. I have you so scared you won't even turn your back on me. I hand you the gun telling you that my intention was to shoot you. Do you shoot me?

Assuming you said no, you must have a little good in you. Probably why I wanted to shoot you in the first place.
Assuming you thought about saying yes for a little second, you proved to me that everyone is the same.
"I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly."

You're thinking, "You're going absolutely nowhere."
So what if I am? Am I wasting your time? Yes. You reading this is a waste of time. This is where I realize that this is going nowhere, so if you read this, congratulations. Here's the big secret. I don't know what the fuck I want to do with my life. Writing? Photography? These are things playing a big role in my life. Sadly, anyone with a laptop, access to Starbuck's, and time is a writer now. Anyone with a camera that takes a picture of a flower is now a photographer to be remembered by what? Their mothers?
Here I am. Zarchary Robert Trottier. Aspiring photographer with nothing but confusion running amongst his brain. Expect to see much, much more from me in the near future.

Now you think I wrote this for me. Obviously, if you didn't know before, I don't write for you. I write for me. I don't write for reactions, I write for me. I fucking write for me. Some people punch a pillow, others find comfort in food. I write.