Moil! Moil!

It’s hard to write when everything feels like repetitive tripe, as though I am just another redundant iteration of an infinite loop of pretentious, elitist, writer slash artist syndrome. Fuck, I can’t even bring myself to feel clever over spelling out “slash” versus using the symbol. Why? Because it’s not.
I’d call it Writer’s Block, but I’m tired of labeling myself a writer; mainly, due to the fact that I fail as a writer, can I no longer use the title in good conscience. Nobody could convince me I’m even worthy of being an “artist,” at this point.
I’m on some kind of fucked-up tightrope, that just gets lower and lower as you walk out onto it, without ever reversing tension . . . Agh, that analogy sucks.
This is all whiney bullshit. I’m all out of eggnog.

Not Dead Yet?