I am proud of myself. Yesterday, at a meeting with friends, they told me I should write a book, because I am a good writer. Of course, I took the compliment with the mandatory grain of salt, and humbly thanked them, laughing it off by telling them they should all write a book. I mean, if I can, anyone can, right?

I’ve always been a writer. I was in the first grade when I knew I would be a writer. All of us first graders were sitting in a circle like first graders always are, when the teacher asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, but we had to make the others guess by making signs and stuff. When it was my turn, I didn’t know what to say. The other kids had taken all the good careers, and I really had no fucking clue of what I wanted to do in the future. I mean, how can you ask a fucking four year old what she wants to be when she grows up, right there on the spot? Dude, those are some serious decisions that need to be made with a lot of thinking involved! So, when it was my turn, I mimicked writing. I don’t know why, I just did it. Unconsciously, I was setting myself up for the future.

I’ve written my way through all sorts of bullshit. Life is pretty shit most of the time, and it’s kind of cool to chronicle all the bad stuff that happens to you, just to remind you that the world is an awful, ruthless place. Even though my writing can be cathartic at times, I am restrained, and write with a lot of care. When I write something extremely personal, I make sure I either delete it, or make it private. As for the rest of my crap, I really don’t care who reads it. I am usually sarcastic, humorous and sometimes involuntarily deep. I don’t think my style is particularly special, but it is a style nonetheless, and it’s helped me disguise my limitations with humor and attitude. And lots of hatorade. Lots of it.

I don’t consider myself a good writer at all. It’s been the one constant thing in my life since I was really really young, yet I suck at it. Ok, maybe I don’t suck. I’m pretty sure I’m hopelessly mediocre. I am not happy with the way I express myself. I wish I were better, more elegant and sophisticated. I wish I’d received some sort of formal training for this. It’s my one true lover, the one true passion that I’ve never left. It’s kind of a rocky, on-again-off-again relationship. There are times when I’m hopeful and think I might have a future, and look for ways to improve, and then there are times, lots of times, when I don’t see the point. I’m pretty sure this is how it’s going to be for the rest of my life, except…

The reason I care about this right now is because I think, like in a silly Drew Barrymore movie, I will end up with my on-again-off-again lover. After years of struggling with career decisions and cursing myself for being so dull and unimpressive as far as interests are concerned, just now I realize I want to write forever. I’ve gotten to a point where I absolutely LOATHE the mere mention of my official “career”, I have a job I don’t particularly like, and my professional future looks bleak and horrible. And there there’s a tiny beacon of light – writing. If only I could do it better, maybe I could do it for a living. Maybe, like my friends said yesterday, I should write a book, a book about being bored and frustrated and wanting to run away from everything. Maybe I should write a book about how hard it is to be a Scorpio woman in the 21st century. I don’t know, so many ideas come to mind, yet so little inspiration strikes me. But that’s a whole different can of worms – the inspiration shortage and lack of motivation will get their own post, if I am bored enough to write again soon.

Anyway, I think I have found a reason to like myself. I can write. I am not great, but I can get people interested and involved in my writing, apparently. That is kind of cool, and it makes me kind of cool. Now, if only I could stop being so gay and emo, I would fall in love with myself completely and would need no one to make me happy.


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