i hate that about myself. i wanted to be accepted by a certain someone. now that i am, i'll probably be destroying that relationship. i guess i better enjoy it now, eh? yea. shit. i could, and probably will, spend my whole life searching for someone else... i know i'll never find it, but i have to try, right? can't be 50 and just starting out... better to be 30. i guess.
30... holy crap. that's way older than i ever thought i'd make it. i was sure i'd die young in some tragic accident. i still can't see myself at 40, though. no. can't. i tried again just now. it doesn't work. maybe, some horrible writing accident.... like i keep licking the end of my quill and it turns out to be poison. i'll write a few brilliant lines, and right in the middle of the most profound thing i'll ever write, i kick it. the literature world will spend decades trying to predict what my next word would have been. that would be awesome. i'd have to make a trip back from hell to check on their progress every 100 years... or so.
like i'd be so fortunate.... really though... good writers are generally a bit nutty. i want to be a great writer. i guess that means i'll have to lose my mind someday. maybe then i won't care about sex and money and material things. all i'll need are my notebooks and a gun (cause i'll be crazy and think people are after me... don't worry, i'm sure it won't be loaded)... oh a pen too... even a pencil, though i don't like to erase what i write. if i write it, it was for a reason. so... i guess you're lucky if you are a shitty writer... you won't go crazy.
so... yea.
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