Blogging is not a hobby. It does not occupy my mind, it isn’t rewarding, it doesn’t take up enough time, and I don’t meet people.

Blogging is not a hobby.

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I want to write, like, beautiful stories. But I am just so dead on the inside. There’s no hope for me.

Maybe the SSRI will do something.

Uh-oh. Starting to feel the meaninglessness of my existence. Hanging out with the brothers would totally alleviate this but they don’t like me around. I can tell from the tone of their voice, and the middle will say, “Do you need something?” real nasty-like.

I thought I had something important to do so I got back to the computer as fast as I could.

I can’t remember. I don’t have anything important to do. My brain playing tricks on me.

The beauty of proper English.