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In a Perpetual Cycle of Writers Block

I should be internalizing my failures, but I’m not. I’m too self-absorbed to ponder about comeuppances, my vagina’s state of decay, or how the moon is an ominous sight after living past thirty. I should be feeling pathetic right now. However, I still have some fight in me and I refuse to admit that I should have just chosen to accept my fate as a lower tier human being with no boon in first world artistry.

I’m done lurking. I’m done watching. I’m done reading really bad prose and fashion editorials that wax profundity, when in turn, whoever they hired missed the point of critical theory.

That’s all…

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