There's some crazy shit going on outside right now. It's cold and windy as hell. I just went out there and stood in the middle of the road, watching the tree limbs fight with the gusts. It sounds like shingles are being ripped off my roof, but we don't have shingles so I don't know what the fuck is going on up there.

It's kinda scary.

Anyway, a good friend of mine is getting ready to pop out a kid. She's due in about a week, but it could be any day now, since the baby has "already moved down." Dear god, do NOT tell me what that means or what body parts are involved, OK? All I can think about are watermelons and nostrils.

This friend of mine has been planning out babies since we were nine. Needless to say, I am very happy for her. Even if she won't consider naming her child Booger.

Anyway, I had this nice little rant in my head about tonight and how I'm a complete fucking failure, but my heart just isn't in it anymore. Long story short, I tried to finish a story for a contest, but could only write a couple paragraphs. And then I cried cuz WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Jesus. Just one story. Just. One. Story. And I can't even do that.

Oh, hey. There's that heart. OK, then.

I know I put these unreal expectations on myself. I know it's my hand and my doubt that erases line after line after line of perfectly fine words. I know I try too hard. Did I ever tell you that I never used to edit stories, outside of fixing grammar and spelling mistakes? And that I always placed in every contest that I entered? Yeah, I hated to talk about it because I always felt like I could do better, but now it seems like that was the best.

You know what? I still hate to talk about it. I don't even mention the awards in cover letters. Fuck it. It's the past.

So, yeah. I do try too hard. How am I supposed to stop that? I can't "just write" anymore. It's almost like I have to redeem my existence by writing that oh-so-brilliant short story and then I can say, "Yeah, man. I wrote something and it changed people." And I want it to change me, too.

I just want to be something, you know?

Oh for fuck's sake. Why is the screen blurry? Am I crying again? No. It's allergies. Shut up.

Hey. Did I ever tell you about the time that I met Ethan Embry and he totally wasn't gay anymore and we had a torrid love affair in Venice? Yeah, it was pretty fucking rad. He taught me how to make macrame plant holders and I still have the very first one we ever made together. Yeah, those were the times, man.

What do you mean Ethan Embry isn't gay? That lying bastard.

Delusions are fun when they're shared.

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