What is writing?
Why can I not just sit down and do this ridiculous thing called writing?
Writer’s Block, Writer’s Block, go away writer’s block.
Staring out the window at a street full of snow
Current list of reflections on life:
-Note to self: Next time you see that bitch going around telling anyone who will listen not to “associate” with you, ask her how her plan to go on a solo backpacking trip across South America is going. Not only will she not know wtf you’re even talking about, it will bring her just enough pause to realize there are more constructive ways to spend her time that will actually make her happy. Be sure to wish her well on her exciting journey of self-discovery. Next stop, Machu Picchu!
-Am I okay? Not really. Mostly yes, but also no. I’m trying to be okay. I’m doing the best I can given the shitty circumstances. I am motivated to work hard and move forward, if only so I never have to work in the service industry ever again. Though I am depressed, I am fighting through it. I am focused on my goals and doing the things I need to do to accomplish them. I’m working hard, saving money, and filling out my applications. There, everyone, look at me! Now that you can’t give me shit about my unemployment problems anymore, you can find something else to pick apart about my personality. Have fun!
-Reflections on Paris: I am frustrated by the fact that one negative experience with a bunch of mean girls is sticking out to me. It is probably because I am frustrated with my novel, HATE Andrew, can’t write, and feel stuck. I was really hoping that experience would be more constructive for me and less high school drama. I mean, yes, it was by and large constructive. I have pages and pages of notes of solid feedback from people whose opinions I actually respect. However, I am not looking at those pages because I am too busy fantasizing about setting my entire manuscript on fire. Thus I return to the sad, petty world of girl drama and wonder, “Seriously, though, wtf was that bitch’s problem?” We don’t know. My only hope is that someday she wants something as bad as I wanted to go to Paris, and when she gets there, she encounters someone just like her who taints the entire experience with her immature, insecure, 22-year-old shittiness. Then she will know how it feels, and hopefully never act that way ever again.
-Working on personal statements… why do I want to attend an MFA program? Because I have a need to write and I can no longer write productively in the crap hole I currently live in. Please bring me new inspiration via readings, films, activities, people, and events. Please invite me to be part of an amazing group of people who I will form positive relationships with. I want nothing more in life than for everyone not to hate me anymore. If I go to an MFA program, I’ll finally be with other writers and we can just hang out and talk about writing and go to movies and deconstruct them afterwards and have intellectual conversations and relate our life experiences and form study groups with baked goodies and shit. No, I won’t be including that long-winded, run-on sentence in my final draft, but you know what I mean. All of this, and other reasons, and stuff. Something, something, let me join your exclusive, prestigious krewe so we can lead a marching band down the street in a fantastic musical number with mermaid dancers and confetti.
-I know, I know, it’s silly for me to still believe deep down there are still good people in this world who actually want to form meaningful connections with others instead of acting like two-faced, backstabbing jerks. What can I say? I’m an idealist. Maybe someday it will actually happen!
-Am I okay? I don’t know. I think so. Maybe. No. Probably not. Sigh.
-I desperately need to get my eyebrows waxed. Better go do that now since writing is impossible.
Le sigh. Woe is me. Fare thee well…