All I Ever Wanted

All I Ever Wanted

What to write? Sitting, feeling guilty. Hopeless. Useless. Stupid.
Not one worthwhile idea in my head. No imagination. Nothing.
This is fucking bullshit. Why the fuck do I feel that this is necessary anyway?
Am I holding on to some boyhood dream to be a respected writer, to separate myself from the crowd? To have everyone admire and look at you like you’re: deep.
But then again what was it that made you think that being a writer was cool in the first place. What and who influenced you to hold writers in an exalted position and why hasn’t that influence abated over the years?
Who knows? One thing is certain: I am tortured by the need to write, like a burdensome responsibility, it causes me guilt, anger, and frustration.
I hate that I have it and I hate when I don’t.
When I ignore my writing I feel both free and trapped. When I am writing with reckless abandon, the words flowing like the wine I consume, I am elated and miserable. I could be with my family. I could be working out or fishing. Damn it I should be enjoying my self.
But when I’m there, I should be here, and when I’m here I should be there.
Why oh why do I do this? Someone needs to come and help me. I don’t want to live like this anymore. Excessive. Compulsive. High, low, here we go.
I aint sitting here no more. This is a tremendous waste of my life. Fuck you and your writing idols. Those assholes should have been living instead of writing. Hiding, that’s what they were doing. Little lifeless weasels hiding in there word processor filled holes.
I am not going out like that, no fucking way! I got almost three hundred words here.
Yes: I’m finally on a roll! This is so great! So fucking great!