I'm sitting on my toilet. Taking a little nap. Letting the water run because it's a properly terrible sound. I haven't written anything in weeks. I mean weeks of tired complaints about how I can't write. Not even that. But sitting here on my toilet, I'm feeling a momentary grace of inspiration. Shit is always inspiring. Shit and having my pants down. My internal struggles, if I may, are deep-throating me whole. And if you must know (and I tell you, you must) my internal struggles have the swallowing skills of a very impressive whore. Not even a whore. Just your ordinary neighborhood slut with an unusually unignorable talent. The kind she'd propose to showcase if you ever invite her inside your living room for a Coke. Shit. But about my internal struggles. Yes. My precious internal struggles that I dearly fondle when I want to feel. (Soft serve, bitch.) Well I'm feeling and I'm struggling and I don't know where to go from here. But truthfully, these very entries are the evident consistence of all I must share. Of all I desire to share and choose to share. I am consistent after all. It is my only consistence. This is.
By now I should assume that these entries are tired and beat. As in dead horse beat. As in you could probably assume what this chunk of text will be about while scrolling down my page. That goes for all the chunks of paragraphs I publish on this here blog. It's me whining and then writing about whining so I can fill the white space while mumbling to myself and getting drunker as the chunk enlarges. I am the face of a pathetic, aspiring writer with nothing to write about. I should just take off right now. Right now. Now that I have nothing for me but empty time. I could leave and struggle. Fucking 'find myself' or what-have-you. But this isn't the post-war. And I know I won't do. I am bound by my empty time. Bound to be idle for as long as I possibly could until I lose my mind entirely. If I am even fortunate enough to lose my mind. My mind is here with me, rotting with me. My only aspiration is to fill white spaces with my chunks of texts and I'm too uninspired (better known as lazy) to commit to it. I can't even classify myself as a pathetic, aspiring writer because I'm not really writing. I'm scratching paper and the shit I scratch bodes no truth. My scratches hold nothing. They mean nothing. I mean nothing. And here I am with my cowardice ways, filling the spaces, and partially telling a truth. And the truth is I like the struggle. But you already know that, don't you? Oh fuck you, no you don't.
