Another one for the hopeless

I can't get myself to write anything.

It hasn't occurred lately. The rains are undecided, and so is my initiative. I just finished a drama script and it looks weird on virtual paper, probably much more when it finally makes the screen. I can't start on my final philosophy paper, because despite reading the assigned article twice I can't get anything. Surprisingly, so has my dedication.

I noticed that two pimples have cropped up on my face. It annoys me. Maybe I've been thinking the same thoughts, or dirty thoughts. Maybe this is a punishment for not remembering to wash my face every hour or so, a punishment for being hyperactive, for allowing my sweat glands to work often. I gave seven or so names to Mae last Friday, a bit forcibly maybe, but I actually trust her with my secrets as much as some people wonder whether her three moles are just drawn in with a felt pen.

I'm even saying weird things. To Jem, for example. "Funny thing I was modulating in the shower," I remember. "Even funnier I haven't been listening to the radio. Their signal sucks from here, all three radios at home." I should be participating in whatever Kelly is asking me to bring in but tomorrow I'm going to try to work for their sister's rival. And, before that, submit that final paper. I wonder how Naomi is turning hers in.

My tendency to be receptive to that kind of inspiration has actually come back. Must be the realization that there hasn't been any big one for the past few, although I mentioned seven names to Mae, and I couldn't possibly lie. But today, and probably tomorrow, I feel so incapable, much like the "another good writeup" comment Lizette received, one I expect to be countered by the "much more substantial" remark Rozette has. I don't know why they're denying it but there are rich girls everywhere. They happen to be my friends, sort of friends, some of them. More of the adventures at night and happiness during the day, so much to throw away, everything else to regret.

It's like thinking that you can't do anything right. I peer into someone's thoughts and she tells a story, of how coffee cups change into greeting cards. They try to hide what they feel. I managed to pry it open. I didn't exactly cry over it, but there's the familiar sense of desperation you only find in the grocery, two brands, same price, same taste, different celebrity endorsers. I've been too secretive but I've exposed far too many of them. Maybe I should try to be more accessible, more mainstream, so to speak. Drag myself into the ways of the monsters in disguise. It happens. I haven't faced it.

I can't do anything about the two pimples. Must mean two people, but it's not among the seven. I don't have the time to think about it. There's still that philosophy paper to deal with, and beach photos, and wishing I was the one asking, or maybe something else. I'll admit, my thoughts lately have been of half-hearted jealousy and full-fledged imagination. That's all I live on, anyway. Please get back from the town center. I want someone to talk to.

Should I be any excited about tomorrow?

And your responses...

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