We’ll Have To Do Dinner Thursday Night Instead.

trying to get together my submission for a writing contest thing. process is going like this:

me: *frustratedly going through five multi-page google docs*

me: why i have written literally nothing in my lifetime

donald trump should get into reading tarot it should be like his next big investment “The tower. very very bad. very bad stuff about to happen. but the changes. they’ll be big. it’s important stuff. but very bad stuff. like 9/11 with your friends. maybe your boyfriend will cheat on you with a lovely gorgeous woman even more gorgeous than you and look at you. i don’t know. big disaster”

*writes two lines of a poem that I’m mildly pleased with*

Me: I’m literally fucking Sylvia Plath

AFFIRMATIONS:

my painting can not harm me

i have control over where the paint goes on the canvas

i understand basic color theory

Girls don’t want a Watcher subscription.

Girls want The Hot Daga to come back.

Dr Gregory House, patron saint of medical malpractice

im staring at a blank google doc and its staring back this feels threatening

can someone fucking linger near the door uncomfortably instead of just leaving. can someone fucking forget their scarf in my life & come back later for it. please

guy who has ibuprofen: I have ibuprofen if you need it btw