Date, Location, Title

dumbasswannabewritergirl

Date: oct. 13th 20

Location: bed

Title: dumbasswannabewritergirl

We meet once again, sitting with my back propped by the pillows that leave my neck sore each morning. My legs crossed as I wiggle my butt into the squeaky bed that isn't mine. Attempting to crack my fingers the way it's done in the movies, I don't feel like explaining how they do it, either you know or you don't. Not being successful in movie-style-finger-cracking, I retreat to the usual way, this I'm willing to explain. I basically just pull each finger, one by one til they each get that nice Bang Snaps sound. You know those things people throw on the ground on the Fourth of July. Really the best part of the Fourth of July is getting to throw Bang Snaps and scare the shit out of people. Anyway so my back is propped by cheap pillows, butt wiggled in, fingers cracked, Frank Ocean softly streaming from my laptop that's planted on my thighs. Laptop is definitely overheating already, I can feel the heat in my legs, as well as visibly seeing the redness spreading over my thighs. The crap that is currently burning my thighs, has been collecting dust for the last four months. It's also been charging for a little over a month. You see, I pulled it out from under my bed about three months ago, determined to open it and well do exactly this. Except I had this full thing I was going to take out of my brain and aggressively type out. I was serious about doing just that, but then as I opened it, turns out it was dead and needed to charge. I plugged the old son of a bitch in and here we are now. It was rather despairing to see how much dust had manifested over the spots that my wrinkly fingers had grasped in order to pull it from under the bed and plug into the charger that laid approximately three feet away.

My butt has been wiggled here for one, hahaha yeah I'm messing, five hours. Within the five hours that my ass's soreness has been increasing into one purple bruise, I've written three hundred and eighteen words. It didn't legit take me five hours to write all of this, my fingers have only been typing for roughly fifteen minutes.................

Sorry I totally just got distracted, it's been six hours now. I felt proud of myself for writing for fifteen minutes straight and wasn't sure what to say next so just started vibing to my boy Frank O and tried seeing if I could still make farting noises with my armpit. After forty-five degrading minutes of giving it my all, I can proudly say, HELL yeah I can.

Anyway, I'm not really in the same head space that I was an hour ago, so honestly not sure where I'm going with this. You see, I've diagnosed myself with what I call dumbasswannabewritergirl. It's rather treatable, but one of the conditions that happens to someone with dumbasswannabewritergirl is they tend to be major procrastinators. If you haven't gathered that from these four hundred seventy-five words then you suffer from dumbass. Man, dumbass is the worst, also the hardest to recover from. My uncle suffered from it, hell he still is!

I procrastinate, I'm one of those people that get locked out of their bank account and needs to make a simple phone call to get back into it , but instead says eh I'm sure I had at least three hundred dollars in there , a month goes by and they still assuming they have money in that dusty bank account. Now I'm also one of those people that aren't fans of phone calls to places such as, banks, les schwab, gyms, doctors, dentists. Wait, pencil out the part where it says "gym", that was merely an example, but hell I've never called a gym, this purple ass is plenty toned without having to pay money. I'm currently smirking because I just remembered of those many times I put off calling the bank, I thought I literally only had a few dollars, but my bank account was thick, thick enough to order dessert and let's not forget a lemonade.

I have a bruised ass from sitting in the same spot for so long, I procrastinate, oh yeah! I also act merely off inspiration. Which brings us back to pulling out this laptop that is seriously unsafely hot. I pulled him out because in case you have dumbass and haven't caught on, I want to be a writer. I chuckled as I wrote that, so you have my consent to chuckle as well, but just a chuckle. Clearly I haven't written shit, I used to try, but stopped, tried again, stopped. That's been going on for years now. Roughly a year ago I came up with the great story plot that I was inspired to execute. Never did. Four months ago, a dream I had about a certain someone that just happens to be a character in the story haunted me. It didn't really haunt me, more like it reminded me of everything I was going through, all the feelings I felt, blah blah. I became inspired again, because my heart felt it had a good story to tell. As you know, my laptop was dead and before I knew it the inspiration vanished.

Perhaps you are wondering what I'm doing here right now, maybe you're curious what "inspired me", permission to chuckle is granted. Truth is, the past few months I have been inspired randomly. Sometimes it happens right before my droopy eyes close, sometimes it happens while I'm scrubbing my body in the shower, other times it happens when I'm listening to Frank O and vibing, basically at random times. As I said, I've been randomly inspired, not once have I acted on it. You see what I do is I get inspired, have a great idea and then say exactly this, I'll write about it tomorrow. That has happened every single time. If any dumbasses are wondering if I ever wrote the next day, the answer is no.

I'm mad at myself for it, and I weirdly don't enjoy being mad at myself. I like looking in the mirror and making kissy faces at myself because that's how much love I feel toward the reflection. I became determined that I was going to wiggle my ass in this shit bed that isn't my bed and write literally anything. Because I also haven't called myself a writer or even said out loud that I want to be a writer in a very long time. Months, many months. I've been telling the people I want to be a teacher. Which I am very torn about because I do, but my heart also wants to bleed on paper. Which means express itself through my fingers onto the virtual paper (for those dumbasses still reading this).

After weeks of procrastinating my determination, I finally wiggled my ass into this bed. Hours have passed, trying to beatbox started getting boring, arthritis is a few years closer thanks to the amount of times I have cracked my fingers. Twirling my fingers in my hair, the way my mother does has really lost it's satisfaction. I was ready to surrender, or to be more accurate, I was ready to give up and store this laptop that really feels like it might blow up any second back under the bed.

The cancer that's probably in my thighs now, my future arthritis, the zits that are already rising from stress, Frank O, the reflection staring at me through the dim laptop. Oh shit, my laptop was about to die, the light dims down, when the power is low, that's what makes my reflection visible. It was at that moment that I saw my naked face, ratted hair from all the fingers twirling, thin lips laying unattractively on my face that brought my fingers to begin typing. Oh yeah, I also felt as though I owed it to the possible cancer, future arthritis and the soon to be zits to write at least a few words.

Here we are now, I'm really surprised that my laptop hasn't died yet. If I'm being honest I thought it would've died after five minutes of typing, then I could just blame not writing more than a few nonsense sentences on the fact that my laptop died. Since we still have life in this fire hazard and I'm already typing might as well actually start telling you a