Easier Said Than Set Apart

I don't write much anymore.

I don't do much of anything anymore. It's like every artistic expression that one lived and thrived in me has dissipated without my noticing.

I miss writing well...or at least feeling like I wrote well.

Everything is about "feelings" with me. Anything I've ever written and actually liked has been all about how I or someone else feels. Michael made me realize that. But I almost hate him for it...b/c I don't even want to write anymore.

I'm not lovely. I'm not flowery. I'm not artistic.

I'm a bitchy, terrible person who gets drunk and high and loves too easily. I don't drink tea, and I don't read. I don't write and I don't sing. I sit her in jealousy of everyone else's success and dwell on my shortcomings. I'm not depressed, I'm just lonely...but what's new?

and still I swear...I'd give it all up if you showed me you loved me.

God is so good to me and I am a pretencious, ungrateful, waste of a human being.

but I think my vocabulary is flourishing. (at least something is)