“I’m just too tired to do this. Leaving writing until the end of the day is the stupidest thing ever, but writing in the morning is difficult too. Word salad and syllabic jumble are the by-products of trying to write when tired. I’m so very tired of bluffing my way through this because I know that writing makes me a better writer and all I’ve ever wanted to be was a good writer.
I don’t know why I feel like I have to write when I really don’t want to. I’m tired and letters are just falling out of my fingers onto the page because I don’t really want to be here doing this but I said I would do this every day and I’m not sure why I have to but I have to because if I don’t I will die maybe not literally but like inside. I will die inside and everything will have less meaning than it already does and I don’t think I could live to be both dead inside and not having anything around that was meaningful. I think life is a con job. No one tells you why you have to live through something so very hard like living just because two other people decided to have sex one time.
Everyone tells you that you should be grateful just to be alive but what if you never asked for that and nothing matters and there’s no good reason to keep doing it because you’re just taking up space and maybe harshing the mellow of someone who is having a good life or a life they, at least, like as a friend. Maybe they’re having a life that is worth living and they don’t like to hear from someone like me who can only find a reason to live if I end up being a good writer. If being a good writer doesn’t happen to me I think that I will just crawl under the bed after I clean out the dust bunnies and last summer’s shoes and just stay there until I die of dehydration because that’s how I start every day. Thirsty, hungry and needing to pee.”