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I should stop making empty promises in writing

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Internet, I tried to write for you on SERIOUS MATTERS. I really did. But I kept getting sidetracked by how much I hated the last episode of Glee–

(HOW, YOU GUYS, HOW IS THAT SHOW NOT ONLY STILL TRYING TO PORTRAY WILL SCHUESTER AS A GOOD GUY, BUT AS A ROLE MODEL? HOW. He makes my FLESH CRAWL. Also, Artie is a TOTAL COCK, and everyone seems to be letting it slide because he’s disabled. WHAT. THAT’S NOT OKAY EITHER! Kurt, why must I love you SO GODDAMN MUCH?)

–and then by over-sharing unattractive personality traits, such as how it is not so much that I do not like to lie, as it is that I do not like to NOT SAY THINGS IF THEY’RE TRUE. There is a difference, and the difference is knowing when to shut the fuck up. Which I don’t. (Obviously, since we are discussing this ON THE INTERNET.) So my views on frenemies, and on knights in shining armour and the general shittiness of waiting for external salvation as a plan, are now shelved for another time. Except for how I just managed to slide the gist of my opinion in there anyway. Zing!


It’s my birthday at the end of the month.

This means I am having that pre-birthday crazy thing. You know that thing. The one where you decide to do EVERYTHING YOU MEANT TO DO ALL YEAR ALL AT ONCE RIGHT NOW, so you feel like it’s okay to get older because at least you ACCOMPLISHED STUFF?

This means that I intend to commit to writing 30,000 words this month, and to running that 10k, and to moving house, and MAYBE EVEN TO BLOGGING EVERY DAY, because that seems like it would be a fun thing to do and god knows I have A LOT OF FREE TIME.

In case it isn’t immediately clear, all of this will fall apart tomorrow. Potentially even later tonight, when I am supposed to go to the gym AND write 2,000 words AND actually cook dinner instead of subsisting solely on alcohol, couscous and canned chicken. AND PROBABLY ALSO SLEEP. GODDDDD. EVERY FUCKING NIGHT.

I also need to shoot a gun. I even found a handgun club in Wellington who take walk-ins on Sunday mornings — I just cannot seem to get there. My motivation for things that aren’t chardonnay or canned chicken has not been great, these last few weeks. I AM NOT PROUD.

But I AM often drunk. So.

Posted by

Writer of things. Annoyer of cats. Mother of very small dragons.

1 Comment so far Join the Conversation

  1. Keep up the good work girlie, that chardonnay won't drink itself you know!


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