Why Writing is Actually the Bane of My Existence.

What a shit title, you must be thinking. And you’d be right, that is a shit title, but I refuse to change it because it is my shit title and I own my shit titles. If I could see you, I’d stick my tongue out at you.

5227758-a-disgusted-girl-giving-a-bratty-expression-toward-the-cameraa-bratty-valley-girl-expressing-towardYou also may be wondering, like smart-asses always wonder, “why are you writing if it’s the bane of your existence?”

<—(How I imagine your face).

Simply because the bane of my existence also happens to be the thing I enjoy the most. Because I, apparently, enjoy suffering. Think about it. If you don’t suffer, you don’t really grow. And if I didn’t suffer as a writer, I wouldn’t grow as a writer. And we all know a stunted writer isn’t really a writer at all, but rather someone who writes.

It’s the bane of my existence because I can never keep things consistent. That was not meant to rhyme, but it did. What I mean is that I’ll take a hiatus for a while, kick myself for taking that hiatus, struggle coming from that hiatus, and then finally breaking through the clouds and pouring my heart into what I do. However, there’s always that looming cloud reminding me: you’re going to fall again. Hey, hey, guess what? *Initiate plummeting to death sounds*

Take this blog, for example. I had a lot of things going for me on this blog. I had consistent readers, consistent followers, I had a nice little fan base and things were moving along quite swimmingly. And then I went crazy and had to take a hiatus and lost all of it. Well, most of it. I lost the rights to the domain because I couldn’t afford it any longer, and I lost consistent readers because who the hell is going to wait almost a year for someone to stop being crazy so they can start writing again? People’s attention spans are NOT that long anymore. Including my own. I can barely pay attention to myself.

My fiction writing suffered. I stop writing short stories, I stopped jotting down ideas for short stories, and what initiated was a complete breakdown of the self. Writing is the bane of my existence because if I don’t do it, I’m at a complete loss. It’s like heroin. Warm, foreboding, deadly, and addicting. I use negative connotations to describe writing because, as you can see, I have a love-hate relationship with it.

not_funWriting isn’t all fun and games, people. Jesus. You can’t just slap down words in any old order you want and call it a piece. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been doing that for the last 3 years on this blog at all. I totally calculate each word that spears through my fingers.

On a side note, I just bought Schrodinger’s “What Is Life” book, because I barely learned about it yesterday and cannot believe I’ve never heard of it. It should be a good read.

See: attention span = shit.

And that’s another bane of my existence: reading. I love it. I mean, I really love it. I read The World According to Garp in one sitting because I was so enthralled by the story I couldn’t put it down. After that, I picked up a second book and read well into the night. I love reading. But it’s always been hard for me to focus on something like a book, unless it snatches my imagination like The World According to Garp, or I’m on some medication like Effexor that makes me highly focused.

But writing. Oh-ho, fuck writing. I love it, but fuck it. And who’s to say you can’t love what you hate? There’s got to be a reason you hate it, right? Maybe you hate it because you love it. Maybe you hate it because it brings out a side in you that you can never project otherwise. Maybe you hate it because you’re just in a spiteful mood, but really you love it. I don’t know your life, man.

That is why you should embrace what you hate. Embrace your enemies. Embrace that one teacher in school who always picked on you. Mine made me a better writer, even when she called mine shit. Embrace what infuriates you the most, and you may learn the reason it infuriates you is something deep within yourself, something you’ve been ignoring.  And that’s today’s mental truth.



It’s not often I share a portion of my creative writing on this blog, but I feel like I might as well, it might help me get back in the groove of writing. I also don’t write poems often, nor do I ever follow any forms of poetry when I do write them (so cut me some slack on that, poetry fanatics) but here’s a poem I wrote last night just freely, without restriction or editing. I posted it on Booksie, along with the one following it, but would like to put it here as well. I’m changing the title to: “Veiled”



The truth has thorns,

and the darkness has arms;

happiness lies, and anger explodes.

We move along this common ground,

you and I,

a soup of emotions, ready to blow.

The nature of progression pushes us forward;

we move silently through strife,

and why, who knows.

Plant our feet carefully between mines

we know are there yet we cannot see,

and be, we try, with ourselves,

however bitter that may seem.

We come across a stream that flows free,

how we wish we could be,

blue, crisp, and clear,

with a purpose dear,

to this Earth,

and we envy the stream.

But free we are in the mind and heart,

as the stream can never be,

rejoice, I say, for we are unique.


the darkness has arms,

and we have voice.


This one is entitled “Freedom”. 


A renewing of strength,

I stretch my fingers, crack my neck,

I feel I haven’t lived for years.


The sun shines bright, an orange morning light,

and I wonder how long this will last,

this time I know this is real.


Birds chirp their welcome songs,

trees dance in the breeze,

and I observe it all,

a caged bird now freed.


A renewing of strength,

this feels contagious,

a bubbling pot on the stove not contained by any lid,

a new homeostasis.


This is freedom

in its purest form,

a feeling unmatched by others,

but envied by them.

Extravagant and glorious,

it makes you harmonious

with the past,


and future.

A trick only freedom can do,

this renewal of strength.


Let me know what you think.

In The Jungle . . .

Picture this:

It’s ten p.m. The stars glitter across the sky like lost souls searching for a purpose and the moon watches over them like a gatekeeper. The leaves of trees sway, invisible in the darkness but not to the ear, and as you glance left and right in the darkness a chill spills down your spine. In the distance you hear a muffled sound coming from a speaker of some sort.

Your car is on the street. You grip your bag tighter to your side and take a few steps farther into the blackness, towards the noise. Where’s it coming from? To your left. You spin to face the sound and a couple yards away sits a woman with frizzy hair and a blurred face. She sits hunched over on a rock with her cell phone in her lap and you strain your ears to hear the song:

“In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight” . . .

You quicken the pace to your car, the Disney song haunting the silence in your head. When you get in your car you slow your breathing and shudder at the music suddenly echoing, louder and louder and louder until . . .

It stops.

Your breath stains the air white and your hand seems paralyzed on the door handle; you can’t seem to close it. Perspiration drips cold down the side of your neck and a silver glint catches the corner of your eye. Slowly you turn. Before your jaw can drop she rips the knife through your trachea, singing:

“Hush my darling, don’t fear my darling,

The Lion Sleeps tonight”.


What you just read was based on a true story.


I did in fact walk outside of my apartment, there was in fact some creepy old hunched woman with white hair on a rock listening to a lion king song on her phone and it was ten at night, dark, and silent. I was sure someone was going to murder me.

Fear not, dear readers, I am indeed alive!

I am alive and at work on an over night shift the night before classes start. I plan on getting a little sleep tonight, so I’m getting my chores done.

I have faced a struggle tonight though, as there is a large, black spider above the back door. He is spinning a web and keeps dangling by his one back leg doing acrobatics and falling a good foot from the ceiling.

He Don’t Look Big, But He Is.

My problem with spiders is their legs. I hate seeing their legs extended, I hate feeling them on my body, I hate their little fangs, their fucking eyes, their stupid mouths; I hate their sticky webs and the way they suck the juices out of their victims (actually that’s pretty cool). But in general, it’s the legs. The fucking legs. I end up feeling like they’re crawling all over me and I end up seeing them places where they aren’t.

So I did some chores around the house that didn’t involve going out the back door and kept staring at it waiting for it to at least go in the corner so I could go outside and get the mop. It never happened.

Instead, I grabbed the flashlight my co-worker let me borrow for the night and went out the front door, around the back of the house, past the motion-censor light, and to the mop by the backdoor. I went back around the house and came back through the front door and preceded to mop.


It started to get cold, so eventually I had to take a baking tray from the counter, put it over my head, and quickly close the door so if the spider fell it fell on the tray and not me.

Insects make me very anxious. Even the moth that came through the door and was flying around me really stressed me out. Their wings flap much too quickly. Flies fly too quickly, bees are really loud, and spiders have creepy legs. It all just stresses me the fuck out.

But I figured out a way to overcome it. And the wonderful thing about where I work is they completely understand. There are people paranoid about people putting chips in them, there are people stomping around crying “it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault, shut up, let me go, it’s not my fault!” to the voices in their head.There are people in the middle of a manic episode calling or in the house talking a mile a minute or spewing a bunch of ideas and following me around as I do chores. Me being so terrified of spiders on the ceiling that I walk around with a tray on my head isn’t really out of the ordinary. 


Some more good news is something told me to go online to look at my finances and my financial aid has kicked in. I don’t have to pay for my classes and I will be getting over two thousand in cash. I almost started crying. That’s such a huge burden lifted.

They’re also offering for people who identify with “mental illness” a class on how to manage transferring into college or to a university. I learned through my job. I am ecstatic to try and get into the class and now that I know my college will be paying, I’m thinking of signing up for it. I could use some support because I’m nowhere near ready to transfer, and it’s coming up quickly.

Tomorrow classes start. I have two English courses: easy. As of now it is 2 a.m and everyone is peaceful here. I think I’ll try and get some sleep.