It's like M.C. Escher inside my head.

You ever feel like you're trying too hard to be what you are, and therefore you end up something you're not? Like you're drunk from one too many vodka and sodas. The world is spinning even though you're still sitting; you have no idea where you are or how you got there; but, damn it, you are going to be the life of the party. So, you grab another drink and down the hatch it goes. In the end, you're tossing your cookies in a strangers bathroom as the boy you like is holding your hair, hoping you would just stop long enough so he could escape without feeling bad. In the morning you wake up, you're face looks like it collided with a wrecking ball, and you have a text saying, "hey, wish you hadn't drank so much. You were so much fun before the mess."

That's me as a writer. I'm always over thinking; hyper correcting. I can't just be satisfied; I have to be more philosophic; the reader has to get my meaning. I ruin things. I can't just enjoy words; the english language. I have to take it and twist it and manipulate it past the point of interrest and straight into over-drawn boredom, or confusion.

I want to erase my mind, and go back to the days when I could write a story. Forget adjectives, forget metaphors, forget Hemmingway, Rand, Wolstonecraft, Dorkin. I just want to know Rosie.

I will never be a writer while I am constantly useing my pen like a hammer.

I'm trying too hard; going on my fourth year of serial murder. I don't think the english language, and my set audience of readers, can take much more.

This is me clearing the chalk board.