My writing sucks.

It’s confusing, improper, and there’s too many errors. I might as well give up, there is no future being a writer unless I want to live with my mother forever.

 

I’m not just crazy, I’m clinically crazy now — it’s all your fault.

Anxiety, OCD, manic bi-polar, and narcissistic — all things I WASN’T before but am convinced I am now.

 

I still have no friends and no one likes me.

I still don’t give a flying fuck.

 

I’m still not over that one asshole and I’m still dating an asshole.

Think college would change how I secretly wish they’d get their head out of their ass? Well, it didn’t. If anything, the asshole yelling in my face and insulting me triggered me to think about other people.

 

Not everyone or everything on campus sucks.

There’s a few good people. My definition of good would most likely be the people I danced with. My most positive college experience was dancing.

 

I will never work in groups again.

It hardly ever ends well.

 

You still have to pay me for me to say something nice about someone’s work.

I’m sorry, I’m not sorry I can’t be nice or positive about someone’s writing especially when I think they are fake or their writing sucks. I’ll give them comments that aren’t rude — that’s it. I need to be true to myself even if that means not pretending to like someone or something I don’t like.