the girl that I once knew.

Goddamn motherfucking piss shit hell. All I really want is to create something. I want my inspiration to return. I have been bitching about this a LOT, but... what happens when you no longer have very much to say, or, when you do, it comes out sounding like pure drivel? What about that? FUCK.

They say... a writer writes, so I should just be able to sit down and just make words happen. Keep on keepin' on, as Joe Dirt would say. I guess I ... well ... it's never really served me well to try to force an issue. How am I going to make something happen that just isn't there? I guess it'll return when it's so inclined to do so. I guess it just makes me feel like I can't do shit right. Honestly? I want to throw something and scream. What's the point in that, though?

They say... Write what you know. I guess that's why I always wrote about people who have risen above the bullshit in their lives. I shared my misery with others in the hope that it would help someone else with their own. I've heard I was rather good at that. What happens, though, when you've finally gotten your shit together and are actually quite happy? Does that mean you're never going to have a moment of pure genius again? Are there really no more epiphanies I will have to share with my friends? I don't think, for a moment, that I've finished evolving as a human being, but I do feel like I've lost that part of me that is able to make other people relate to me, which... I guess that's what I loved the most, someone being able to identify with me, a feeling I had, an issue I was sharing through the random stories I'd write.

"not the girl that I once knew..."

I guess, in order to find my new epiphanies, I need to become accustomed to being who I now am. Gods know I was used to being that other person. You know, that other person who never served me well. Fuck that shit.