I was so sure that as soon as I finished art school I would be rich and famous because then everyone would see my amazing talentz. But I still work a ****ty retail job. No one loves me, and my idea of a good time is sitting at home having specialty tea alone will watching my cats sleep.

I used to write poetry, but honestly, I just don’t care enough anymore to make the effort of constructing extended metaphors to illustrate emotional states that have become so damned ingrained and predictable.

I am like an empty vessel. Or, to avoid all useless similes, I have no new ideas.