Getting that fresh, straight, clean, perfect notebook from the store, in your favorite color, with exactly seveny five pages and paper that's just the right color. The lines aren't too thick and it's the perfect texture for your pencil. You open it, ready to write in that perfect, unscarred notebook...
And you have nothing.
Your mind is a blank.
You have no idea of what to write or draw.
Fucking life.
Then two months down the road it's beaten up, torn, half the pages are missing, and the half that are intact or legible are either scribbled or doodled on, not to mention, you're missing the back cover.
