I Suck

I suck.

I'm horrible at writing.

Was I ever a writer?

Should I have been running around calling myself a writer?

Hemingway shot himself.

Bukowski was a drunk.

I have red hair and blue eyes.

I'm a fraud-ass bitch who's only talent is being motivated.

Is this what you want, conscience, for me to admit to myself I'm a bitch?!


Where's the juice in those lines?!

The rhythm of your sentences, your pacing, it all sucks.

Get better, bitch! Pull out some of those literary devices you always read about.

Talk about how your dad called you an unwanted bastard, but was still there for you.

Talk about how your mom packed you dinners senior year when you worked that after-school job.

Talk about how you were low key popular your whole life. You had it so rough, didn't you, Brandon?

Why don't you write about sleeping on that lady's couch when you were 33?

You won't. Because you're a bitch.

Just a whiny little bitch who will always have a shitty life because of your choices. No one elses. Is "else's" supposed to have an apostrophe? You don't even know that, do you? Go fucking drown yourself in a cup of water while your peers stunt in your face.

You hack-ass, wannabe bitch.

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