I hate you, writing. Hate, hate, hate.
I’ve never met anything or anyone who could make me feel quite so insignificant. So inadequate. I could write all day every day and only produce two sentences worth anything—if I’m lucky. I used to think I was consistent before I met you. I used to be content with my ability to work through problem (or creatively side-step said problem). I used to approach my keyboard with a sense of confidence and happy expectancy.
Like a dragon licking its lips before it roasts a marshmallow to perfection with a delicate blast of flame.
But you are a jerk. You force me to sit for hours, fingers still on the keys, eyes staring blankly at the screen. You make me lost. You make me repeat myself. You make me use the dumbest clichés. You make me pissy and mopey and ten kinds of frustrated. You make me look like an idiot.
Like a dragon scared to fly, allergic to fire, and unable to fit into its scales. Or something. You could said it better.
But do you know why I really hate you? Of course you do, you jerk. Because without you, I can't say