Sat down to write tonight and ended up with a morose and self-pitying prose poem.
This is a dire situation, my friends. There’s a reason we fill our journals with poems of gloom and doom as teenagers, and a better one that leads us to look back at them with horror and pretend they don’t exist.
On tomorrow’s agenda: writing something cheerful, and taking myself less seriously. This is one path I have no wish to pursue.