Vapid… now there’s a word with teeth.
And that’s what I like—something that bites, something that cuts you in all the right places so I have your attention. I hunt for words; I always have since I was a kid. Collecting my finds, playing with them in my mind, looking and waiting for the moment I can work them into a conversation or a written piece.
It’s not unique to me, maybe not even to writers. But writers are the worst: the bottom feeders of the intellectual pool.
Vapid. But not because they lack depth.
Moody, brooding, intellectual. It all sounds so sexy and plays well on film. The list of leading men and teen heartthrobs could be its own post on a different page. I bet we all have someone in mind when we hear those adjectives, however. For me, it’s Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (or the show Angel).
But how awkward would that guy be at a party? His socials would be empty; he’s too busy reading to be posting, too busy learning to be engaged. He comes across as… boring.
Vapid.
So what am I?
So I write. I write, and I would like you to read it. It turns out, the last part is a little more tricky. So I prostitute myself out to the digital void and yell, “Look at me,” and each time I feel a little cheaper and a little more prosaic.
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