If you came here for a “How to Improve Your Mood in 5 Easy Steps” post, my bad.
I’m more “When You Hate Everything Just Let Yourself Fucking Hate Everything” kind of gal.
This starts with the fact that my fiction story, The Last Unicorn, has stalled. Wait. That’s passive voice. I’ve stalled. The words on the page are limp. I’ve spent weeks tugging and jerking and stroking and caressing and…
My muse is impotent. And I’m apparently too dry to get it back up.
As a result, I hate everything.*
I hate the last 72 hours of “Should Oprah Run for President Because She Gave a Speech and People Like her” news coverage.
I hate everyone’s 2018 affirmations and that I’m still reading them 10 days into the New Year. (Perhaps if you put your fucking phone down and focus on DOING things, you wouldn’t need to affirm and motivate yourself as much).
I hate think pieces about the new Justin Timberlake song. No, I haven’t read them. I just hate that no one can like or dislike anything without lending us long-winded rationalizations that amount to nothing more than a masturbatory exercise.
I hate period acne. It’s bad enough I’m punished with literal gut-wrenching pain every month I don’t conceive a child. You know what’s counter-fucking-productive to child conception? Having a bunch of spots on my face.
I hate staged-ass, let’s-have-a-full-blown-portrait-mode-photo-shoot-every-time-we-breathe-air-ass Instagram feeds. (Unless you’re selling a brand or product. That, I get.)
I hate watching the same fucking teams win championships every fucking year, which is part of the reason I’m “meh” about sports these days. (Listen. My family’s from Alabama and I’ve still had e-damn-nough.)
I’m sure I hate more things. That’s all I’ve got for now.
Oh, wait. I still hate my impotent ass muse. And myself.
At least I let off a little steam.
[*] I had to change one of my 50 million work passwords today and used “screwthis1.” I’m tired.