Fuck. Everything feels really inescapable but I think that it’s the lack of sleep. So I don’t really care what you want to read about. This is more about what I want to write about. I think the first thing is how I’m second guessing my choices but I made them already so jump in my consequence bed which is basically the same as a one night stand where you pass out by accident and want to die cause you just woke up in some stranger’s bed and you cant remember if it’s him or yourself that you hate more. Joking. That was fun.

I cant follow a single cohesive thought all the way through. All I can think about is grief and my inability to write about it. I guess grief is what bought me back to writing but it is also what weighs the process down. A friend of mine sent me an article on David Foster Wallace and his writing process. It was about how writing has to be fun. I’m skeptical. My two favourite authors said that their best work nearly drove them to suicide and also David Foster Wallace killed himself. So, writing is not fun. I am not having fun when I sit here and can’t pull out a single fucking thing. I don’t know if I believe in writer’s block. I think that there are good days and bad days just like my raging mental health. Side note- I don’t actually think I’m crazy. I think that my ability to function has been impacted and functioning is not the same as living but we keep being sold the idea that it is. Also I’m not anxious, I’m psychic. Let’s talk about that tomorrow.