But not the physical kind where you sweat through your grey sweatpants at the gym.
The mental kind, like when you have poison ivy and you think about anything fucking else but the sweet orgasmic relief of slowly ripping the top layer of skin with your nails.
I haven’t written a story in over a month. That’s like fucking forever.
This time last year I was pumping out stories like Octomom.
Lately it’s been
feeling hurting constricting
……Fuck it. You get the idea.
The thoughts come in and I want to “one up” every single one of them like that annoying kid from third grade who always had a cousin that did everything you just said, but better.
Fuck that kid.
And fuck this post.
The next 20 are going to suck too.
Then the next 12.
And finally there will be one good post like this one, which I’ll love but no body will read.
Then 20 more shitty ones.
It’s like my man Vonnegut says:
“…And so it goes”