Hello gangstas.
This is my grandma, whom I love very much.
My throat hurts and I am worried. Worried that I have allowed my brain to liquify into a useless mass of mush. Also worried that I won't be able to sing in tomorrow's item in church, but that is a lesser matter (kind of).
I hate reading what I've written. It all sounds about as poetic as used chewing gum, as clear as a sdjkfoiwafh of wuowikjsdkjsdg, and as relevant as the wallpaper of the room I'm sitting in. If my inspiration doesn't forgive and forget whatever I did to it I might as well decide to pursue a career in napkin folding and give up on the writerly life.
I feel like crawling into somebody else's (and by that I mean yours, dear reader) life and planting myself squarely in the corner of their bedroom, just so's I could pretend somebody loves me and wants me around.
I've discovered that my negligible powers of conversation have shrunk by at least 23.5% in this last year alone.
I hate being a girl; having hideous hormones that do things to my heart and brain and whatever else of me there is...
"...the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy's Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city's reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty."
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