INT. OFFICE CUBICLE – DAY
CODY sits at his desk, typing. He pauses briefly to put his head in his hands before looking up again at the computer’s monitor. Onscreen is the text of some bullshit he doesn’t care about.
CODY
The fuck am I supposed to post about on a blog, anyway. Who gives a shit, right? I don’t even read blogs.
More keystrokes, then rapid-fire depression of the BACKSPACE key until the text field is blank.
CODY
What, like, I’m supposed to lay out my beliefs about art, politics, ethics, philosophy? Tell you what I had for lunch? Give juicy details about my sexual proclivities? Explain what Mercury going retrograde in Libra means? Write poems? Share photographs? Tell jokes? Burn bridges? Dramatize my life for the sake of Art while risking my reputation and potentially hurting people? Lie?
The text cursor blinks against a white field. Cody checks the time. Still too many hours left in the day. He sighs.
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