Writer’s block is the shittiest shit monster made of shit. It makes me write sentences like that one. It makes me write nothing else, at all, for days. The only natural cure for this feeling – where it’s like you’ve fallen into an extremely deep pit, and any attempt to crawl out just jostles more dirt into your face – is to do your best to ignore that face-dirt, power through, and pull yourself out. That’s what this melodramatic analogy is for. If I don’t write a little bit of nonsense, I’ll continue not writing anything at all.

I hate nothing more (short of, like, the supervolcano) than being a massive downer. I’m definitely not the most bubbly person alive, but I can only be around positive people. I hate complaining, I feel like one of my strengths is maintaining a certain level of optimism during debates, and I genuinely enjoy the musical stylings of Ke$ha.

It kind of disturbs me that the catchphrase of my generation is “I hate everybody,” and when I’m in that place where I’m more happy than not – more grateful than disappointed – I find it difficult to be around people who disagree. Because of all this, it’s hard for me to answer “How are you doing?” with anything other than “Good!” I don’t want to be the sad one. I don’t want to be that introspective emo chick in the coffee shop, wearing enough eyeliner that you can see her misery drip down her face. I don’t want to be a drain or a bother or an Eeyore or a supervolcano.

I just wish the energy and excitement for life that I definitely do have came out of me more naturally. Maybe a better analogy than the pit of dirt would be a parka? Or something? It’s me under the coat, completely alive, completely normal, but it’s zipped up too tightly for me to get it off, and I can’t get any work done because I’m sweating to death under the weight of this totally unnecessary layer. I can talk about all the stuff I have to get done, but I can’t actually move.

The creativity isn’t an issue, but the creativity might as well not exist without the followthrough. I’ve found myself sitting still, doing nothing at all besides glancing half-heartedly at social media feeds, saying out loud, “Today. You’re going to do x today. You’re finishing that today. Twenty minutes. Now. Get up.” And I just can’t. The parka’s too tight, the pit’s too deep, whatever.

But it is a step in the right direction to write this feeling down. It’s taking longer than it ought to, yeah, but I don’t have to be good at it. I just have to do it. I find that to be true with most things. I’m working out every day and although I’m exhausted within 3 minutes and am probably exercising all the wrong muscles, I’m still doing it. I’m trying to live by the wise words of Amy Poehler: “You do it because the doing of it is the thing. The doing is the thing. The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing. That is what I know.”

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