I’m the author of a little-known period of history.
All it takes is a little editing and a little love. It sure goes a long way in show business. A business of hardship and pain, but you feel nothing when there’s nothing to lose.
There’s a letter. There’s Lionheart’s non-linear historical account. That maddening delusion that a man can lead a decent life without hiring himself out as a Judas Goat.
There was a Taylor who worked in a senior role at Pelmorex, helping shape creative and executive decisions, but this story isn’t about that dude. It’s about Taylor Swift, Johnny and my own “swift presidency” at Lionheart, where ideas moved quickly and my creativity ruled. I got the message.
In the beginning, I created Lionheart — and, over time, it stirred up more frustration than I ever expected, quietly gaining a reputation as a bad company that didn’t quite land the way I’d hoped, but I lost nothing. When an unsuccessful murder is company news, it’s obvious there should be a concerted Russian effort to convince employees that Lionheart is not part of an unprecedented crime wave. No surprise. Nothing changed. It sucked. I was pranked. As Buddha once said: “Shit happens.” I almost look athletic running away.
No medicine for nightmares, instead I’m shouting on the edge of a Brewington forest. Nobody’s listening.
