Notice me bein' all active an' shit. I joined a group and all. So I suppose that means I'll get back to the ol' critiquing business. Might as well, since otherwise I've just been a useless bum. Moderately useless. Sometimes I do laundry and have been known to pet dogs without provocation.
Honestly, I'm writing this journal out of sheer boredom (and possibly some procrastination maneuvers) so if you were waiting around for some point or something now would be the proper time for you to jump ship because I am just going to ramble for a bit. I do however promise to attempt to stay out of the existential and therefore into a tailspin about my failings as a functional human being and everything else. Though you familiar with my lack of self-discipline may remain skeptical, well, I have no real argument against it. This most likely will revert to gross indulgent sobbing.
So I might start writing again or something? I mean aside from the mess I posted a few days ago. I mean something substantial. Arguably nothing I have ever produced has had substance, but let's ignore that very real possibility to prevent that tailspin I mentioned earlier.
Again, if anyone were to pay attention to any of my habits, you would have reason to raise an eyebrow at such an outlandish claim. The Terror? Writing? Her? That piece of shit couldn't write her way out of a third grade creative writing class. In this you would not be mistaken. If the school I went to had been in the habit of failing third graders.
I think I got off the subject somewhere. If I had a subject to begin with. I do recall saying there was no legitimate point to this journal so I suppose than there is no reason to stay on subject if there actually was one.
Circular logic. The first step to recovery is acknowledging you have problem.
It has occurred to me that this renew vigor for writing will fade shortly. IN FACT, I have anticipated such a thing. What do I intend to do with this knowledge? Nothing probably. I mean I wrote a journal. That seems like a lot. I mean at least I recognized I wanted
to write. Yes, I am actually a piece of shit parading as a writer. You have caught me. I am nothing. I am garbage.
Hold up, tailspin.
Back on track. Maybe I should make a schedule or something. The problem with my old stories is that every time I make one I enjoy it, but in a very short amount of time I start to see the flaws in the world everywhere. I had not built it enough and I could do better. So I kind just drift away from it. I need to set laws and physics and societies and histories. "Worldbuilding" or whatever kids these days call it. And I have. And I do. On such extreme scales with such minuscule details. Probably on dangerous levels. Sometimes when I'm falling asleep I start designing cities. Sometimes I wonder about the sex lives off an insect I invented. This insect doesn't even have a place in the fucking story. I don't even have a fucking story. Jesus fucking Christ. This is all such mother fucking bullshit. I so sick of this shit. I have no focus and I'm drowning and I can't fix myself and I don't know how and I can't get doctors. I don't know what else I can fucking do. Fucking shit.
Get it together, soldier. You made this god awful mess and now you have to lie in it.
Alright. So. Um, what. Ah. Hm.
Fuck it. I'm just going to be a poet.
Roses are red, fuckass.