Sometimes your muse just kicks the fucking bucket and you get blue writer’s balls. This is me. I am the one with no word-love at the moment. A lot of factors cause this. For me it is no money, shitty weather and a pinch of not giving a fuck. For the major part, though, it is because I seem to be doing well. Instead of a necessity for change driving my writing, being content has bred apathy. So now there is only one solution. One dark path.
I have to get real down on myself.
I am a real dick sometimes.
I like to drink whiskey neat because it makes me feel like I have a bigger penis.
I do not have as big of an alcohol problem as I would like.
Sometimes I like posts on facebook without reading them.
I constantly look up words on the internet to make sure I am not making them up.
Sometimes I do not listen to people while they are talking to me because I am thinking about mountains.
I do not understand how music is made.
I do not wear sunglasses not because I think they’re lame but because I do not know how to buy cool ones.
I like to pretend I am bad at sport because I was bullied in primary school.
I am bad at sport.
I am a terrible dancer.
I am a terrible cook.
I do not kill animals because I think that an evil one will come back and kill me later.
I am afraid of ghosts.
There is a cupboard in my house that I will not open. Ever.
Aaaand self loathing has kicked back in again. I will be back in form as soon as I get rogered on vodka and write some terrible poetry. My next post will be me getting dangerously drunk and posting up poetry. I am as serious as a heart attack. Stay with me people.