Writing about not being able to write is possibly the biggest cop-out there is, so it doesn’t surprise me that I’m doing it.
I wish I could say the lack of content on this site is due to my busy lifestyle and trying to keep up with how popular I have become, but I think we all know that would be a lie. The things I have posted in the past month or so have been from the comfort of my own bed where I plan to shrivel up and die – at some point.
If I didn’t actually have to leave my bed every day I wouldn’t. I’d willingly let my body seize up and invest in a commode so that someone else didn’t have to. That seems like the right thing for me, I’m 21 and I’ve already run out of steam. Please send postcards and well wishes on my journey to becoming a stagnant thing and getting myself into Madame Tussauds.
Instead of being present and doing things, I’m constantly reading as a way to avoid writing anything myself. Writing is how I put my thoughts into a semi-coherent sequence and deal with them one-by-one, so by not doing it I’ve stunted myself in ways other than my height.
This is why I’m writing – now – when I don’t actually have anything to write about. This isn’t to guide you through to a ridiculous discovery I have made about myself and how I’m completely invested in becoming a better person. I just wanted to write something; so that there is a small possibility I can maybe write myself out of this hole I’ve dug myself into.
If I knew anything about structure maybe I’d dabble in creative writing or poetry, but English Language isn’t my thing.
What is my thing, though, is being over-emotional and clingy.
I really need to see my dog soon, or maybe a shrink.
Have a good Christmas break, Y’all.
P.S. Why do we call it a “Christmas break”? Aren’t we just replacing our usual, every-day anxieties with more Christmassy ones? Like “Oh shit where did my money go? Oh yeah, had to get Gloria some f*cking silver goblets so she doesn’t tell everyone I’m stingey.”
F*cking Gloria. There ain’t no break.