from how little you accomplish in the span of six hours, or making faces at your reflection in the window behind your laptop screen. the former may result in blow after crushing blow of realizing you're really unpopular and the only reason those people on Facebook list you as a friend is because they like watching numbers get bigger, but at least it will keep you from vomiting up whatever your subconscious decides it needs to purge itself of. the latter is because everyone is secretly narcissistic and you are no exception.
but shouldn't you give yourself a break? not everything you write is crap, right? there was that time you had a poem published in your school yearbook. it was nice. it mentioned nature and pretty things and how people should take time out of life to stop and smell the gardenias blooming in the red flower box that hangs from a charming window set in the smooth-polished river stone of that quaint little house on the corner, the one they pass by every day on the way to work but never really notice, except when they do stop they see that the gardenias are actual dead and the lights are never on in that house and one time they looked in the window and saw the bleeding eyes of the ghosts of two children that lived in the house twenty-six years ago but were never able to leave and if your mother saw what you were writing, she'd slap you to little pieces, how could you even let the world see what goes on inside your warped, freak little head?
in a perfect world, you have more than just a passing resemblance to Ellen Page, the circumference of your thighs isn't found through pie and watching the first two seasons of Will and Grace in two days only means you have dedication (but if Debra Messing doesn't learn how to wear a goddamn bra you're going to throw the remote across the room). in a perfect world pomegranates don't cost five dollars and you'll always remember not to wear white when eating one and red-stained teeth are actually cute. in a perfect world the things you do that you deem 'adorable' are actually that, and not just increasingly 'creepy'. in a REALLY perfect world, people want to read what you write and you're all right with that and the DEL on the DELETE key isn't rubbed off.
perhaps you have the chance to let this be a perfect world after all. you HAVE been told by at least one person your shit is worth reading. granted, it was your creative writing teacher who smoothed thinly-veiled threats when handing out assignments to stare at doors and write about what's behind it.
but shouldn't you give yourself a break? not everything you write is crap, right? there was that time you had a poem published in your school yearbook. it was nice. it mentioned nature and pretty things and how people should take time out of life to stop and smell the gardenias blooming in the red flower box that hangs from a charming window set in the smooth-polished river stone of that quaint little house on the corner, the one they pass by every day on the way to work but never really notice, except when they do stop they see that the gardenias are actual dead and the lights are never on in that house and one time they looked in the window and saw the bleeding eyes of the ghosts of two children that lived in the house twenty-six years ago but were never able to leave and if your mother saw what you were writing, she'd slap you to little pieces, how could you even let the world see what goes on inside your warped, freak little head?
in a perfect world, you have more than just a passing resemblance to Ellen Page, the circumference of your thighs isn't found through pie and watching the first two seasons of Will and Grace in two days only means you have dedication (but if Debra Messing doesn't learn how to wear a goddamn bra you're going to throw the remote across the room). in a perfect world pomegranates don't cost five dollars and you'll always remember not to wear white when eating one and red-stained teeth are actually cute. in a perfect world the things you do that you deem 'adorable' are actually that, and not just increasingly 'creepy'. in a REALLY perfect world, people want to read what you write and you're all right with that and the DEL on the DELETE key isn't rubbed off.
perhaps you have the chance to let this be a perfect world after all. you HAVE been told by at least one person your shit is worth reading. granted, it was your creative writing teacher who smoothed thinly-veiled threats when handing out assignments to stare at doors and write about what's behind it.
