a letter

i was making life decisions in the shower one evening when i was younger (i think it was the fourth grade) and i suddenly thought that "running out of time" would make the best book title ever, and i was so set on writing a book titled just that, and when we went to the library the next day i checked to see if it was taken and it was. it was taken by one of my favorite authors, margaret peterson haddix (i went apeshit for those "shadow children" books back then). i then realized that i had probably caught a glimpse of the title in a library before, and that it wasn't such an organic idea that stemmed from my own mind.

i'm so full of shit, and it's exhausting. i've been writing so many fucking blog posts and they're all too shitty to post. i claim this blog to be exploited fiction...when i thought of it, i was like "fuck that's a brilliant title" and my friend agreed so this site was born. i googled the title just to make sure no one had used it for anything important, so don't worry, i'm good.

as i was saying (before i went on my utterly unnecessary rant regarding the etymology of this blog's title), i'm so full of shit. one moment i'll want this blog to be profound, dark, real - and then i'll watch a video of an animal having babies or something, and i'll be all optimistic and shit and try to make this blog exciting and fun.

this is supposed to be fiction, but i'm afraid i'm going to let myself down a bit and publish some real things once in a while...including this post.

i'll be writing about something that i think is really raw and dark - like i've written accounts of my suicide attempts because i think oh this might interest some people, this isn't something everyone in the world does everyday, maybe the fact that the subject is a little macabre and unconventional will deter readers from my shitty ass writing. it's the truth when you're writing and writing and you're all "oh my god, writer's block ain't got shit on me, i'm like the next hemingway" and then you take a break to reread your work and all you can see is the shitty, shitty reality: the word "that" is used way too many fucking times and you're all like "damn i wrote that many run-on sentences?!" and you want to be surprised, as if an alien invaded your mind and did all the shitty writing for you, but then you realize you're not surprised at all and it's just another shitty draft to crumple up and throw out.

relax, i'm environmentally friendly - i saved all the drafts. what the fuck for, i don't know, but it's there in case i feel some sudden urge to post something.

god, what i would do to be a sweet, smart, loving girl. i wish i could love everyone. fuck.

you should also know that...i swear to god i'm interesting. i mean i've got all these doctors and shrinks and a history (and an obnoxious presence) of mental illnesses and medications and shit...the problem is, i revel most when i'm in bed alone, so after a while there's little to write about. i'm not creative (because creativity is making something out of nothing, and since i've got nothing to write about, i should still come up with something good, right? see, i'm not creative).

this is my promise to you: i guarantee pure shit, and nothing more.
welcome to hell.