Blank pages
I stare at these plank pages and I’m so fucking stuck, I’m lost. I used to be able to write and it wasn’t like carrying a sack of bricks uphill in the snow on roller-skates. The words were there, now they’re not. I hate December so fucking much anymore. I hate my birthday. I hate, ah, fuck it. I’m so fuckin’ eloquent, I know.
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December, hi!
Hi! So, the last part of November went badly. I had trouble with a trach change, and some Xanax, and a girl, and seven seasons Intervention, and my vent, and a rubber ball, and peanut butter, and some duct tape, and a kitten wearing a pashmina… I just didn’t feel like writing amidst that sort of chaos. December, however, is new and wide-open.
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