(untitled)

 I'm a little bit pretentious. It's something I think about sometimes. How I regard art so highly; pick it apart and devour it and entrench myself in its minutia. How I'm a bit of a stereotype of myself. A quiet, artsy, writer. Lover of the classics and horror movies. Who rewatches movies and likes to talk about how it's all an allegory: hidden under layers of gorgeous symbolism. I think people who read O! Pioneers and think the winter is just a season are foolish. And that storytelling is becoming a lost art.

...

But I love dime-store novels. Trashy teen fiction that I can finish in an hour. TV shows that recycle the same plot structure and have 12 seasons. I know everything does not have to mean something else, and it is not all one big metaphor for a writer's loneliness. I don't turn my nose up at people who haven't read Mobey Dick. I haven't either (I think it's kind of boring, what can I say).

...

I'm pretentious, and a little judgy. And I've gotten more so with age. Not so much outwardly. But I've always been the silent type, keeping what I truly think inside, while I quietly nod along. I guess it's one of my worse qualities. 

...

I say all this because: I'm pretentious. But I don't see that as a bad thing. I love art in a way that begs me to sink my teeth in, to tear it apart, and consume. I love most things very deeply. I guess it's one of my better qualities. To be eaten alive by the thing I love the most. Or maybe it's hubris. I can't tell from this side of hindsight.