Whenever I finish a novel I want to write.
Air is breathed into my prepubescent aspirations, I want to write and write and write and achieve.
There is a shortage of literature around my house, however, and this is what I've realized is truly dampening my potential. So what now? How will I go about accomplishing this dream, this impossible fantasy, one for which inspiration only hits once a week, and where said inspiration lasts for less than half an hour, not quite long enough as a high off cheap drugs?
My fingers are sticky with pomegranate juice. The air itself is ridiculously humid, mosquitoes buzz around me, my newly washed hair itches with a vigor, and they all combine to collectively vex my physical presence.

Today I realized another more universal truth, the importance of telling someone when you're upset at them and how that actually breaches the barrier to a true friendship. I've only done that with two people. Partly because it's not important enough with some people, and partly because some of my close friends I just don't have anything to be seriously angry about. The latter is a shame, I suppose, since I can never have that bonding feeling after a genuine talk about feelings. This sounds like a sermon. But when I saw her red face after an innocuous comment from someone else suggesting that I had said something about her, I was struck by how confrontation would really just fix everything.

I'm rambling but I don't care. I should ramble. I wish I could ramble for a day straight and write an award winning novel. But that day is not going to come. The only hope I have is to buy an enormous stock of well-written coming-of-age literature and devour it, much like a druggie finally having obtained his substances again, and then ride the high, maybe throw out a couple of pages, short-story style, attaining enormous satisfaction that will only be left in an obscure folder on this laptop wasting away.

I
don't
know.
Tell me what to do.