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Complete stories are against my nature in this particular blog. Stringing together incomplete thoughts and passing them as meaningful poetic ..regurgitation, is terrible writing. However, they are a decent reflection of the senseless hormonal bullshit state of my insides, for that matter. Writing is not one of my strengths. My sentences lack flow and originality. I remember a time when I could throw together a mean essay in creative writing class months past its due date, when at this point it's either a pass or a fail, and I'd still get an A because it was just that good. I would consider this generosity as some sort of pity or favouritism had I not covered my friend's ass for a twenty last minute, achieving him another big fat A. Obviously I had it once. I think, as my first language, I just take english for granted. And writing, like any skill, requires nurture and practice to reach great heights. Potential left to sit around and grow gray hair is an ugly waste. I am incredibly 'well-rounded', to be modest. I have barrels and barrels of potential rolling around in this hull while I'm staringing dumbfounded at the skies, completely lost at sea. Rotting wood is of no good dear. But let me tell you this: soon enough I will be going places.
This is me pulling my act together
For real.
This is me pulling my act together
For real.