why insist that every word be planned exactly, no mistakes or extra 'and's or 'the's and that every single sentence has a point and punches the reader right in the goddamn face and delivers powerful messages that make the weak pee themselves in sheer awe of the writer's obvious genius and raw artistic introspective talent? why struggle for hours staring at a blank screen or a college ruled sheet of doodles in green pen that you stole from your sister's desk drawer because really, she always has the better pens, with finer tips that don't bleed when you get bored of paper and start drawing all over your hand even though you know your mother will scold you when you hold her palm for the dinner blessing, just to belch out a page or two about how your first love didn't go right because maybe it wasn't really love and maybe it was just a case of late night indigestion at the wrong time and your brain confused 'bloated' (but not 'with affection') with 'infatuated'? is there really an actual reason besides selfish need for attention and, in turn, approval, from every gob-mouthed human-being with moderate brain function, a passable vocabulary, and a decent attention span?
it always feels like a drunken one-night stand (though how would you know, you're an eighteen year old virgin who hasn't so much even kissed somebody as you've stared your fist and wondered if you'll ever be desperate enough to try) when you write, doesn't it? you look back after a day or five minutes and then scrabble for purchase on the fake woodgrain of the desk because, oh my baby Jesus, YOU wrote THAT? it's always a massive six-car train wreck of botched similes like "he elusively escaped through the back door like a raccoon hobbles away from a night of scavenging garbage; fat-bellied, black-eyed, and satisfied", or "her corpse exemplified the true meaning of 'Lady in Red'". when you push your hair back from your ashamed, grimy face, you review in horror what it is exactly you thought was so sexy and exhilarating and wild last night: a misguided attempt at intimacy with your muse, when all along you knew you were better off pleasuring your subconscious with a muted Jude Law movie and the fifth of watered-down vodka you stole from the back of your father's booze cupboard (which really only consists of bourbon and the vodka, which was three dollars and bottled in a town half an hour away).
you're so much better off obsessively checking your email (both accounts) in the hopes of distracting yourself
it always feels like a drunken one-night stand (though how would you know, you're an eighteen year old virgin who hasn't so much even kissed somebody as you've stared your fist and wondered if you'll ever be desperate enough to try) when you write, doesn't it? you look back after a day or five minutes and then scrabble for purchase on the fake woodgrain of the desk because, oh my baby Jesus, YOU wrote THAT? it's always a massive six-car train wreck of botched similes like "he elusively escaped through the back door like a raccoon hobbles away from a night of scavenging garbage; fat-bellied, black-eyed, and satisfied", or "her corpse exemplified the true meaning of 'Lady in Red'". when you push your hair back from your ashamed, grimy face, you review in horror what it is exactly you thought was so sexy and exhilarating and wild last night: a misguided attempt at intimacy with your muse, when all along you knew you were better off pleasuring your subconscious with a muted Jude Law movie and the fifth of watered-down vodka you stole from the back of your father's booze cupboard (which really only consists of bourbon and the vodka, which was three dollars and bottled in a town half an hour away).
you're so much better off obsessively checking your email (both accounts) in the hopes of distracting yourself
