I spent an hour brainstorming the other day, trying desperately to write, but this is all that came to me:
Push it baby; push it baby, out of control. This is the same old dance that you already know.
Someone once said that “happiness is the meaning and the purpose of life.” I can’t remember right now who exactly that was. Aristotle, perhaps? Or maybe Alfred Lord Tennyson? Both highly enlightened fellows. But regardless of who said it, they must not’ve had the opportunity to attend college.
FAIL.
Melissa, you suck. Rather intensely. Please cease with this and go fuck yourself.
I look back over my life sometimes and wonder just how much more I would’ve fucked up if I could do it all again. Would I have taken more screwdrivers to class, thereby both easing and heightening the pain of actually going to class?
Write, dammit.
That party last night was awfully crazy, I wish you’d taped it.
FUCK. STOP. OKAY. FOCUS.
Three AM. Not a sensible time to be sneaking out your bedroom window. December 14th. Not a sensible time to be sneaking out of your bedroom window in your pajamas and slippers. And yet here I am, crawling out my second story window in the most unflattering clothes I own solely to appease my best friend.
It took all of four seconds for her to arrive after she had begged me for half an hour.
Okay, seriously Melissa. STOP SUCKING AT LIFE.
WHY IS NOTHING COMING TO ME?!
Awesome, right? Yeah, I'm pretty sure my free-writing needs a bit of work. :/
I kind of like it.
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