Writing

 I've been practicing my story telling and I feel kinda proud of it. I haven't really tried in so long. 

Now if only I had an original bone in my body. Supposedly dreams are supposed to be a good muse but nope, I only dream of murdering and being murdered. Which felt really weird btw, even for a dream. Like holt shit I could so clearly feel my heart struggling and giving out and the blood pulsing from my wound right next to it. Weird ass dreams. 

Anyways writing is kinda hard but fun and satisfying. I kinda don't want to stop now even though it's probably not gonna be appreciated? Its slower than reading though so I don't blow through it so fast. Er, as fast. 

Anyways, my anxiety is as strong as ever but this is life now. I know know how much longer i can drag this out.