The last day has been filled with me wondering what in the fucking world makes me think I'm any good at this fucking shit. Really. The story that I am currently stalled on page eight of is not that great. I can't even finish the damn thing. And I can tell you right now that I am not looking forward to hearing what my professor has to say about it because more likely than not it will be soul killing.
I'm pretty certain suicide fantasies are not a good thing. In fact I'm pretty sure they are the opposite of a good thing. But they are what comes into my mind when I think about the possibility of bombing Spanish and not graduating on time. And well that's not on, nor is it conducive to getting any fucking writing done.
I've dropped the f-bomb three times in this fucking post.
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