My mother calls me for dinner. She says I look thin. She says I should eat fruits and broccoli.
I have told her, over and over, that I hate broccoli. Broccoli is too green, too hard. It’s tasteless and the smell of it makes me sick. I hate it.
My sister says why don’t you get a job. I tell her I don’t like anything. The mall depresses me. Retail is sickening because I can’t pretend to care for what people want to buy. I can’t pretend I like a dress that looks ugly and shouldn’t be sold to anyone.
My father reads the online news because technology has changed. He falls asleep often, his head resting on the keyboard. I call and say dad, why don’t you sleep on the couch. He goes back to reading. If he calls me it’s because I forgot to turn the lights off in my room. Don’t you know how much we pay for electricity now?
My room gets more disorganized every week. I try to go through old papers and throw them out. Then I realize I need them. I just don’t know where to place them anymore. I am still getting used to this new room.
The old room spoke. My walls were happier. They were softer, whiter.
Everyone gathers in the kitchen downstairs with a laptop in front of his face.
I don’t even speak. It’s like my lungs are tired of taking a breath for words and my body is building up muscle because I work out so much and I am too tired to think.
272 words. I am speaking two hundred and seventy words but I am not saying anything. I am not trying. I am taking the easy way out. I am not writing. This isn’t writing.
Nothing speaks DAMN it.
I miss inspiring people. I have lost the ability to inspire. And I find that sad. Slap me. Tell me to stop nagging and start finding something real. You know what my horoscope said today, it said I should stop dreaming and start working towards a real goal. I laughed and said screw you.
I’m wondering if I am dreaming again.
I take a hot shower. My showers take an hour sometimes because this house is so fucking cold that the blood stops circulating in my ears. I take a long, burning hot shower and cry because I can’t think of a reason why I feel so damn tired.
I just broke my nail that had grown so nicely. And now I feel like cutting all of them, making them as ugly as I can.
I wonder how people see me. I’ll tell you what I think. I think they think I’m pretty, but mean and insecure. I wonder if that’s how they see me.
I wonder what it would be like to be a real writer.