I was sitting in my sinky couch, trying to find something to watch on netflix. I had just finished watching something on youtube. Media is just not hitting these days. That’s when I thought about my show and how I haven't written in forever. Then I thought about the novel based on my show and how it hasn’t been updated with the new versions of my pilot. So I came to work on that.
I sat in front of a blank google doc for too long and then put Renee Rapp's Bite Me on. I am listening for the first time and it's giving 2005. I love it. I wanna make cute nostalgie 2000s music. Take me back to the days I blocked out, amirite?? Not unpurposefully? I guess I got really good at dissociating. I hardly remember last year, let alone however many years ago 2005 was!
Anyway. I wanted to write, and I don't know what it is about fiction that just does not flow. I think if I made it a point to sit and make myself do it, it would happen. Maybe it's because I don't read.
I have such a hesitation to just let me be me. To let my creativity flow. I just need to be as authentically myself as I can possibly be at any given moment. Most of my art is so wholly and desperately close to my heart. I put myself in everything I do. It’s why it’s so damn hard to put anything out there. All I have to offer is myself, and if that isn't enough, well fuck.
I KNOW that it will never be enough until it's enough for me. I decide that. I just know that I am destined for greatness and any move I make, anything I create is important, and I think that is what will make my eventual content so special.
For now, my routine is still pending. I have two weeks to get my life on track. I didn't plan any acting classes today. I also missed my chaos drawing last night. I also also missed last night's blog post. So here we are. I need to go grocery shopping; I need income; and I would love a handsome, self-aware man to pay attention to me. Now taking applications for fluffers.
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