Who wants to read about an imperfect stranger’s life?

Who am I? And how many people do I have to destroy to find that out? Life and love are nothing to me without something to be proud of. Something to say “This is what I’m about.” I can call myself a writer all I want, but when getting into deepest heart of it, I’m an ex-writer. An ex-creative mind, with no current light. I have not one ounce of poetry in my body, so writing all about the darkness I feel is frivolous.

It’s begun an epic and cynical circle. I wrote to relieve some of my pent up stress to award myself with a little happiness. And then when my life gets much less interesting, I lose it. The stress of the people I am forced to deal with, the ignorant, bitchy people.. who aren’t even worth venting about are blocked in my chest. There’s no way for me to turn the same repetitive immaturity into something to laugh at. These individuals are so horribly unappealing, you can’t even write a sentence on the irony of their idiocy.

Is this my life? Really? And how do you move forward? If I had one wish in the world, it would be to surround myself with chaos. Not the stressful kind, but the sort of madness that’s easy to pick apart and love for what it is. Life. What I’m living isn’t life at all. I’m tits deep into the mud of an embarrassing rut. Time to dig out.

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About misschrislee

Laughter really is the best medicine.
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