It’s a well known fact writers are batshit.
Let me easily prove that to you- Sylvia Plath. Lena Dunham. William Shakespeare. Louis CK.
And well, me.
We overly sensitive freaks have this twisted tendency to overwhelm ourselves with all the experiences of the world and (here’s the really weird part) we purposefully dive into it. You will often find us on the ground pulling at this knotted conglomeration, hoping one thread, one idea will give and somehow magically unravel all the mysteries of the human mind.
We are often wrong and will fail over and over again. This causes us to have breakdowns where we eat food until we have a one person pity party for our lack of restraint, respect, and frankly lack of sheer creativity. This sometimes proceeds to binge Netflix or if no ones around to watch it- the hard stuff and changing the time to 5 o’clock because fuck it, if a (wo)man breaks the seal for the fifth time but no ones around to hear it, then did they really drink that whole tequila flask?
This will continue in a downhill spiral similar to your average toilet flush leading to dirty hair, a filthy home, further slumping in your misery and lots of cold cereal.