It’s 10:34 pm, lights out in twenty-six minutes and I’ve just begun. “Why I write” is the question, and my pen’s answered it a hundred times, but something else is on my mind. The answer, why I write, would expose a lot about me, and honestly, I’m not ready to stand naked for all to see. My childhood was a political kakistocracy, filled with hypocrisy and tragedy, marred by the very hands that were supposed to love and care for me. Dear mom and dad: Fuck you. That’s all I have to say about that. I know it’s hard to understand, but the ink my pen spits flows from deep within, and lately, this question of why I write has my pen angry, and I can’t see a way to tone it down, reign it in, or hold it back. Writing’s like smoking crack: once you ink out a few words, there’s no turning back. Screw that, give me a gat. And I’d go back and straighten all that. Nah, no I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. Ms. K taught me better than that. She humbled my pen. I can’t sing, I can’t dance, but when it comes to absorbing information I’m like Sponge Bob in fat pants with an elastic band. You understand. Why do I write? Because I can.