There’s no way to describe how this feels

belgian-endives
Yes there is. Of course there is. There always is. I just haven’t gotten good enough to be able to. 

But I’m going to be able to. Over the course of months and years, I’ll eventually be able to describe how this feels. For now, I’m shit. For tomorrow, I’m still shit. But at least I realize it. I don’t think feces can normally think about its own shittiness. That’s the only thing that separates me from shit. The awareness.

This may as well be called a diary, because it is. I’ve written about a lot of stuff in my diary. I pretended that the wordcount in my diary counted as the wordcount for a manuscript. I thought I was such a big shot, with my 40,000 words, then my 70,000 words. It wasn’t until now that I realized that most of it was pure shit. . 

Not that I can discredit my writing. It was good. For me. Good enough for me. Good enough for the world, then, I suppose. Because if it isn’t my work that gets you, it’s my taste. And my taste is better than yours. That’s how it feels. That’s how all of this will feel.

So, follow along, and we’ll embark on my stupid fucking journey of “self-discovery” and “whimsical shenanigans.” I’ll be vulgar, I’ll be insensitive, and I’ll be a little narcissistic. But that’s what I think I’ll do. What I might do. I don’t actually know, because I can’t even tell my own future. I just pretend like I can, and cruise along, trying to convince everyone else that I can. I hope they’ll believe me.

Hello. I’ll be blogging my experience. I hope I enjoy, and I hope I’m not too angsty. But what do I know. I’m a teenager. Not for long, though, and that’s the whole point of this diary. Like those videos where a dude takes a picture every day for a year, and he grows a beard or something. 

I won’t grow a beard.

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