Woe is me

Me being classic me: I’m supposed to be finishing a draft that was due yesterday, but instead, I’ve put to waste the can of coffee I chugged an hour ago, and have spent my energy lurking around Reddit, browsing through old photos, and, ultimately, going through this space. During these ungodly hours, I fully regress to College Iman, procrastinating the shit out of her 10-page Philosophy paper, or taste-testing and writing a review on five different kinds of instant coffee in one go.

Again and again, I think to myself: writing isn’t really that hard, given the right circumstances. Given the right push. And sometimes that push comes in the form of writing anything other than what is supposed to be written, i.e. writing this post, instead of submitting my draft.

But then. What are the “right circumstances”? Is it where and how I am physically as I write this post? Is it the timing of the events in my life at this exact moment, and how I narrate it? Is it knowing and reading about the topic assigned to me, and then think like your principal, and get that shit done before *all hell breaks loose?* Is it me taking shots, but instead of tequila, it’s some cheap instant coffee that’s barely even cold to wake some sense inside me?

(One thing I learned from my previous day job is to never answer “I don’t know” even if I literally–for the life of me–don’t know shit about anything at all. So, instead, answer with…)

I will find out. The answers are there, we just need to find ’em and work something awt.

On that note. Nothing gets me irked like a voice in my head saying everything I write is shit, so it doesn’t matter if this is the first or eleventh draft. I get hurt (offended? frustrated? sad?) when people think that it’s so easy to churn some writing out. Hashtag, sensitive writer alert, but I’ve had people telling me, “You don’t need inspiration to get things done!” or “It’s your job, get over it!” Sure, girl. Some people can (and props to you, sis) but I’m not wired that way. At least not yet. I am not a slot machine, dammit. Not a robot, not a woman-writer-spewing-talking-head, not here for any of that. Can’t I just bloom where I’m planted.

Truth be told, a little consideration is hard to get by when it comes to these things. A lot of compromises are made, but never enough improvements to make things better moving forward. (Not a shade.) (Or is it.)

(I am reminded once again why I quit writing on a blog a few years ago: It’s because I can get whiny and inconsolable. Moving on.)

I hope I can get some nice writing done over the weekend, or at least before the deluge of graduation and commencement exercises come for us in the next few months. I have taken for granted taking photos of workspaces, but I hope to remember all the things I’ve seen, and share some stories with you soon.

Until then, here’s hoping this draft writes itself as I persist through this throbbing headache and twitching left eye.

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