just saying

If the world were like it should, there'd be something restraining a girl from doing some of the things she's bad at, the ones where the results will make her want to jump off a tall building afterwards. Like, discussing politics. Social interaction. Dieting. Fighting entropy. Writing. Why is bad writing so painful, anyway, even on the occasions when it's practiced in the privacy of one's personal privacy? I can't sing, either, but belting out a whole five verses of "I Will Survive" with my very own lyrics just makes me happy, as long as no one else can hear me. And the visual arts, where I really don't know what I'm doing? I have no shame at all. It's all, like, lookie! Icons! Aren't they nice and messy? Aren't I a regular Picasso of iconmaking? - But writing. hurts. and leads to comfort food and clothes and newspapers left lying on the floor until I can't wade through them anymore without slipping, and, and, statements about the state of the world. So I need intervention.

Or maybe I just need to shut up. shut up. shut up! dammit.