Witch Evil

I am way tired of the tractable. I write something, anything. You instantly think it’s about you, you, you. You always think it’s about you. Always. Why? Really, why, why, why? Is your ego just T H A T big? I can’t take it anymore. Really. I am stepping on imaginary toes. It makes me afraid to write honestly because everything is an imprecation on you…or so you think. I can spit them if you want. All day, anyday you want.
Please. Do me a favor. Step back. Or better yet, step off. Seriously. If it’s about you, I’ll tell you. Just ask.