why is Staying productive at home so fucking hard?
Here I am writing this diary entry while watching sex in the city. I am in the bed with my blanket wrapped around my waist marinating in my guilt. I could be four volumes into my nonexistent “romantasy” book series if I had stuck to it august of 2024.
If I had a creative bone in my body. If my creativity could be cracked open and scooped out like bone marrow. If I finished those five books last month and magicaly retained all is vocabulary. I’d where I am supposed to be by now.
If you were to ask the younger version of me where I’d be at 20, It for sure wouldn’t fucking be here.
I have this sickening feeling that even if the economy weren’t shit I’d still be living at home. The state of the economy is a great cover up for my incompetence.
Dissecting this tweet I read earlier this month (Because I’ve deleted TikTok and twitter feels more productive)
