Mark me up in this theater called life.

I haven’t met a blank page in a while. It’s intimidating. Cliché enough, I have no reason not to write and every reason to write. Here goes going.

Fuck you. Two incredibly charged words. But really, I’m living and breathing everything I want to fuck about you. I’m really anxious. I want to tear out the fantastic inside me and vomit it all over this page, but it’s just lingering, itching, I feel it and just can’t. I want it to flow, I want to create something I feel good about, something I obsess over and store away unfinished only to look at months, or even years later only to re-perfect it and realize how much I’ve grown in my writing between that time. I guess that’s one of the thrills about it, markers from one time to the next, details unspecific, but feelings charged.