Wall of Sound

It's eating away at me, the blank page. I've been depressed and not doing schoolwork. When I imagine the blank page before me, I freeze up. My mother says I see too many possibilities and I freeze, and she's absolutely right. I'm waiting for my estrogen to arrive from New Zealand (I think) and it's maddening. My supply of premarin is limited, so I've had to cut back to a quarter of my normal dose until I get that package in the mail. As a result, I'm kind of PMSing 24/7.

But that's not the reason I'm subsisting in misery. I've been missing my Marijuana Anonymous meetings. I haven't quite become a recidivist, but my disease, unchecked, finds a way to compensate, and I've been eating myself to death for that period. I don't know what's keeping me from taking two hours out of my Thursday to do what I know I must do. An older, wiser person has even given me the gracious offer to sponsor me in the intervening time, but I just couldn't do it. I'm afraid of fucking it up, and that leads me to fuck it up. I want to walk the bright path. I don't know why I feel I can't.

In the meantime, I played "I Wanna Be the Guy." Hardest platforming game I've every cursed at. It seems that the designer had a deep, personal hate for whoever would be fool enough to download his shit. It's enough to inspire me to my calling: making games of little to no marketable worth. If this paragraph makes no sense, sorry.

It's so weird having this public diary whose audience's existence is in superposition. I have no guidelines for what or how to write, whether something is expected of me or my expectations are simply in my own head. It frees me, but it makes things difficult, too; I firmly believe that constraints are sources of inspiration. Without them, I often feel lost, especially when writing fiction. I'll be trying more fiction soon, god willing, because I feel or want it to be a certain kind of salvation. Maybe I'll find my voice again.