I’m overcome with the urge to write.

Sure, maybe not a sentiment that should come as a shock to a writer, but I like to be honest with the anonymous “you”s that read these little snippets of my life, and the thing is, well, application season has me all in huff. My fingers have been useless for anything apart from helping me incessantly.obsesively.compuslively.psychotically check every form of communication hereby created by man just in case all those grad schools out there are leaving voicemails for me at 2 in the morning.

(Here’s a hint: they’re not.)

The volume of energy and time going into keeping myself from actually imploding means that the rest of my brain is shut down. My panic is causing a huge blockage, meaning that my creativity is about as clogged up as the sole Porta Potty right smack in the middle of a marathon would be. (Pretty picture? You’re welcome.) In the most optimistic of views, it means that the building pressure will only make my creative juices explode and send me straight through another story or ten. But I’m a istheglassevenreal kinda woman, so I’m thinking that the only way to get out of the funk is diving right through the muck and going for it, no matter how craptastic the end result is. Pun absolutely intended.

For now, all I have is this ittybitty post on a blog that isn’t getting nearly the amount of attention it deserves. It’s not that I’m too busy, or that I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. It’s purely because I can’t find the mute button to my hysterical inner dialogue. But I’ve decided that you won’t mind being a part of the conversation, as long as I swear to uphold my snark.

Here’s hoping I burn the midnight oil churning out a story.
Or, at least, that I’ll cash out the old cliches in favor of creating future ones.


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