There are days when I sit on one side of my couch, with my notebook on the other and I just glare at it.
…I actually wish death on an inatimate object. Wanting it to feel the same pain it gives me…and sometimes I wonder if I stare at it long enough… will it turn into a jar of Hellman’s mayo?
…a girl can dream.
Then there are days where I once again, falsely assume that throwing back a few (ten) Michelob Ultras (Low-carb mother fuckers) will bring me this magical power that defeats writers block but in actualality I just end up buzzed, dancing around my house half-naked…in front of a lot of windows
…and I’m pretty sure my neighbors already think I’m…odd.
Some days I have to ask myself, why am I even doing this? Why do I feel this constant need to find some sort of humor in my painfully mundane life…as I hide in my car on my lunch break, scribbling away in my blue composition notebook…and a co-worker stares at me as they walk past my car….like right now.
…that was awkward.
…he would find me doing the weirdest thing in my car possible…god damnit.
Only to have him approach me 30 minutes later…
“Oh, so you write. huh?”
“Absolutely not. That was not me hiding in my car after you asked me to have lunch with you…and I awkwardly declined.”
“I didn’t say anything about a car.”
“Oh…er…you know what sucks…herpes…and I would know…I have them.”
I don’t….seriously I don’t…but this dude will not take a hint…and honestly I’m willing to sacrifice my sexual reputation at this point…but I think if you’re reading this post…you already knew that.
And sometimes I wonder if the only reason I write is really just so I can constantly play with my boobs.
“It cures writer’s block.”
“Sure it does…whore.”
Sorry for this randomly sentimental post…but this is my 100th post (Heyo! Mother fuckers) and I’m just glad I haven’t quit yet…so you should go buy me some mayo…and congratulate me…and shit….