I just realized that I'm not good at this.
Or that I'm tired of it.
Either way, I'm going to stop writing the way that I have been.
It nauseates me and summons migraines.
I care too much. What's wrong with me?
Can't I just wear blue and black on my palms and be fine with it?
I know I used to.
I used to be funny, too.
God, I'm turning into my father.
Well this is ironic. Quite theatrical as well.
But don't get me wrong. I don't part-time as a closet diva contrary to popular belief. And by popular belief I'm referring to the judgement of my multiple moods upon each other.
Yeah, I can be a mess. But don't worry, I save it for my desk.
I guess this is where things get real and much closer to the actual level of eloquence I'm lucky enough to scrounge up.
Well, there you have it.
Take me or leave me!
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