Anonymously, Chanel

Lately, I feel as if my words are dull and that my writing abilities have been critically drained. Every time I sit down to write something, I read back and notice how stupid it sounds. I want to start something, actually I have started something but I am stuck again. Writer's block can be such a bitch. Does the writing project matter at all? Not really, but it matters to me. It matters that I cannot finish any of the writings I begin unless they have something to do with school. It matters.

I hate how I think of you again. I was perfectly happy in my little bubble before you left me those questions. Anonymous doesn't particularly mean anything, now does it? Its as if you've left this disturbing little bug in my brain and it serves a daily reminder of my choices. I keep thinking I'm going to run into you, see you, be forced to confront you at some stupid event...and then what? What is the proper thing to do, or more importantly, what is the actual thing I will do? In my imagination I will turn away in shame that I don't feel I should have, and some days I will picture myself smartly saying hello and acting as if everything I did was okay. I feel that way. Sometimes I know what I did was absolutely the right thing, the logical thing, the smart thing. Sometimes I also want to feel guilty. Guilt is my sore spot. I hate it. I will not succumb to it. Please, I don't think I can go through it all again.

I miss my best friend.

Black Hole Sun

Resumes- making them at least- suck the life out of a person. Truly elements of evil. It's a good thing I woke up in power mode today, otherwise, I'm not sure I could sit and wait for my marketing guru to get back to me on more resume writing advice. My eyes are a bit sick of looking at the computer screen but whatever. I might go blind one day anyways. It's too hot to run. The sun beats down on the black pavement with a relentless force. The week feels like it is slowly melting away and the sands of time are barely able to move from the heat's intensity. Lame poetic jargon is what keeps me going on a day like this. Or, perhaps, what keeps me going is the comforting silence that I've maintained all day in my room because I've been working. I love you, Silence.

What else shall I write here? I'm in busy mode and I thought that this would be able to keep me off task but I'm just more edgy. I need to get my resume done. I need a freaking job. Ugh, I love you summer just as much as I hate you. After all, birthday money doesn't pay for books and clothes. It just feeds my appetite for caffeine and  non required reading.