The curse of the creative mind is in failing to realize, that real life is entirely dissimilar to the talents we flaunt over blank canvases and writing pads.
That the heavens have not given to us the same liberties to recreate realities that we fancy at the ingenious stroke of our impulsive pen.
So we would oft contend with deep disatisfactions, as the world refuses to submit to our own story lines.
Blustering back and forth erratic emotions of the real scripts of life's unapologetic realities.
And real people that are just people without the expected edges and artistic depths that you would have penned into this tale, this day.
I mean who imagines this setting, and characters that could be so much more classier, and perfect, if she'd given those responses with a certain flair and turned her nose up just a tard inch higher.
That was not the way the story was supposed to end, no it was not.
So you trash yet another script failing to realize that that was another real person and a real situation and real emotions and real lives beneath penny worth of hapless conversations....
But you didn't write the story, if only you'd written the story. It would have been so much more perfect in my own words.