I have not written anything that I’ve been satisfied with since 6th grade. Oh sure, since then I’ve written things that other people say are good, but I can never really bring myself to believe it.

I wish I could write well. Good writing inspires within me a creeping, spreading jealousy that can envelope a good mood within hours. Of course, I keep reading. It is good writing after all.

I cannot stand reading my own writing. Something about it irritates and bores me to no end. I already know which thought is coming next, so why bother seeing the words that express it.

I’ll keep on practicing. This is garbage, but I haven’t updated in too long.
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