Shit Over 1664 and Smokes

¨The thing about writing now is there isn't shit worth writing about anymore. Even for a journalist. Sure there are bombs exploding everywhere and cars crashing into things but to write about it is to be in denial that the world is shit and so are people, then you just give it worth. Just be fucking glad you have all of your limbs.¨
This was a conversation I knew I shouldnt be having in case it went somewhere weird as most political conversations do with strangers but I was kind of lonley and glad to have somebody younger to speak English with who also listened to the cure. So, I figured, over tall cans and smokes, I might as well humor the arguement and give it a lazy 85° weather kind of go.
¨Shit well.. I dunno,¨I began to answer, ¨I write because I have to I guess. I like documenting things. I think it's important to write about the world and where it's going. Besides I started writing when I was super Young. I'd write weird short stories about celebrities or cartoons on t.v. and like, bizzare comics when I got an idea of what sex was. ¨
¨Hah! That is bizarre.¨
¨Yeah. Then it became a thing of necessity. I thought about death a lot eventually and I had to write about it to make sense of it in diaries I had.
¨Bon, voila! My point there, you wrote about shit and death. Cowardly death at that, what did you know? You were only a little girl! Hell, not even God's shit is worth writing about.¨
¨Which is technically, what? The world and his people, right?¨
My beer was getting warm and my stomach wasnt satisfied with the part of baguette I had, but again his good looks and well enough company kept me in this weird conversation. He claimed to be from Paris but I was skeptical because it is July and he should be on a beach somewhere in the South, according to what many have told me about Parisians. His misery had me humbled, though, in my pursuit of inspiration. It's not everyday you meet a real nihlist anyway.
¨Ëxactly! ¨
Ï think I write because I'm an artist.¨ I said.
In that moment I realized how buzzed I was in the heat.
¨Ha! Well what you sound like now is a stupid existensialist. Besides, what makes you an artist? Do you make money?¨
¨¨No.¨
Äre you good?¨
¨Not particularly. A little, yeah. Not classically, but as my friend said, I make a 'valiant effort'¨.
¨Shit I say. It's all shit. There are too many of these so called artists around to make any of it important. They're all fucking Coca-Cola ads and shitty pop album covers.¨
¨Yeah that might be a little true.¨
¨I could take the biggest fucking planet sized shit right in the middle of fucking Invalides and still it wouldn't- Actually no I take that back entirely. That would absolutely be worth writing about! Could you imagine? HAH HAH HAH!¨
His laugh sounded like several painful grunts, loud and sharp.
¨There you have it then. You proved yourself wrong.¨ I argued.
¨Non, madamemoiselle, I am never wrong.¨
¨Shit there's my bus. I'll catch you around maybe.¨
¨Oui, peut ètre.¨
I sprung up from the curb, slightly disturbed, and jumped on a random bus that had stopped across the street. I had no idea where it was going.
I didn't care.