(no subject)
Life goes in fast forward and slow motion. The good times speed by and this aching boredom drags along. I don't have anything to look forward to anymore except for release dates for books and nights where I get drunk off my ass at clubs and have guys all over my shit. I don't even have the balls to call the guys who pass me their phone numbers. I wonder what I'm passing up, but I'm a snob and think that if guys try to pick me up at clubs then all they want is some booty. Besides, there's got to be more to life than boys and love and books. So I wrack my brains and ask--what else is there?? I've got to get out of this stupor, this funk. SOS.
And why the hell does everything I write turn into bad poetry when I don't even try to make it that way?
And why the hell does everything I write turn into bad poetry when I don't even try to make it that way?