I’ve been reading the works of this writer who inspires within me this rolling ball of creativity. But at the same time, here I idly sit, biting my chipped, painted fingernails in envy of HIS creative ball of energy. And that envy then forms this never-ending questioning and self-loathing reverie, as I sit on my bed at four in the afternoon, wondering where it all went wrong for me.

Why can’t I write like him? Why can’t I write like me? Why can’t I just put on some clothes and live my life like other people do every…single…day? Why can’t I stop thinking about that girl I saw at that show six months ago and never saw again? Why haven’t I gotten my fucking period yet? Why did I let that guy I don’t even know act the way he did toward me? And why don’t I regret it?

I’m so fucking uninspired that I’m inspired by it. But only for as long as this final sentence lasts…