creative_slacker

It's about four thousand degrees outside. I just finished reading The Rum Diaries by that fellow above. I'm disgusted and amazed that he wrote the novel when he was 22. I'm trying to remember what pathetic things I did at that age; certainly not write a novel, I would barely spit out a five page college paper without grumbling. Even now, I type a few pages and I'm beat. I'll blame it on the heat. My brain is boiling from the humidity; I'm guessing it might be affecting my abilities to type streaming words of genius. I can barely string a sentence together without a twist of strain. I guess that is so like a procrastinator, blaming something, anything... the weather, college loans, dating codependent men, not enough coffee, too much coffee, self evading humor, and whatever may cross my path next... I blame you. (heh). You are the reason my genius is lost in translation. You are the reason I pine for a better more fulfilling, more passionate life. It's all your fault I am a creative slacker.