The fit of emo is over. Spare me the lecture. It's a part of the 'moving on' process. Some people get shitty drunk and sleep around, I write blog posts.
Well, I get shitty drunk and sleep around too but I'm actively trying to deal with my emotions in a more healthy, adult manner.
As it were, I decided I do need to write more. Perhaps, in the form of a book.
And it's looking more and more like it could happen.
The problem being...
I have nothing to say. Not a damn thing. I have writers block the size of the taj mahal.
Which is not a great start, if you ask me.
As soon as I can afford a new desk, so I have some space solely for writing, I fully plan on cranking out a lot of work. (My last desk didn't survive the move, which would be unfortunate had it not been a hunk of shit). It's hard to be a creative genius (or a creative anything) when your work space is also your dining room table, and because its a gorgeous wood you refuse to set up your 2 computers and printer on it. My work spaces eventually look like a tornado consisting of diet coke cans, post it notes and take out containers hit it, and I'd rather not defile my favorite peice of furniture in that manner.
That and currently I am right next to my front door. Meaning I can hear every time my neighbors slam their door. Which is roughly every 30 seconds. They're driving me batshit crazy.
Note to readers: If your apartment number happens to be 214, pick one. IN OR FUCKING OUT.
I'm supposed to be tossing out ideas for a title of a book, and I've got nothing. Any suggestions?