I think it was like two and a half years ago, when I wrote a really rough rough rough draft of what would have been a first chapter to a story. (I always think of writing stories in terms of fictionpress. I've never thought about writing books as books.) It was about this dude who was procrastinating studying because coincidentally, so was I. Or like, I was procrastinating by writing about a dude who was procrastinating. 

Anyway, so the dude was procrastinating studying for his finals. He goes to a place to grab a burger or whatever, and meets his girlfriend and her two friends there. He tries to blow her off, and she keeps asking him why, so he says something mean to her to deflect, which makes her friend hit him or something. 

I liked how I'd written it because I thought I'd made him sound funny and quirky and whatever, and when I showed a couple of my friends, they said he seemed angry all the time. I was shocked, because how could he have been angry all the time?! He was procrastinating. That's like, inherently humorous. Or whatever. 

They also said that some guy trying to punch him out for what he said was kind of overdramatic, and I was even more shocked. Because doesn't that kind of thing happen all the time? Like, Harry and Ron try to kill Draco for dumping on Ron's mother. This shit happens everywhere! 

Even worse, I tried fleshing out the girlfriend and the backstory between her and her friend so that it'd have been more likely for him to hit the main character, and I figured it all out, and then stopped caring about the whole thing. Because this is how I write things. I figure out the characters, and then there's no point to writing the story anymore, because for me, that's all any story is about. Figuring people out. There's no story beyond that for me. I've never ever written or thought up a story past the exposition stage in the beginning because there's never been any sort of major plot in my own life. 

Everything is a ministory. Everything is an episode. It makes me wonder how there is such a thing as a series of books. And sequels. Because characters are all the same in the end. They even change the same way. So then what's the point?

My eyeliner still looks like shit.

I really do hate my manager. The last time I had work with him, he was supposed to close the store, and made me do it, which isn't that big of a deal except when he decided it was important, yet again, to teach me how to count coins.

I told him I didn't think it mattered how I counted the money, and he was like, yes, but I PREFER it, and repeated himself when I tried to counter it again.

I'm incoherent about this because I can't see past the rage I have at him trying to control how I do things. Like, okay, you have policies and procedures about how the store is run, and I'll follow that because it's your store, but telling me how to count things? That, to me, is crossing the line, because you're imposing your personal preference on me. It has no functional reason other than the fact that you just want it that way.

Normally, I'd close without you breathing down my neck anyway, and I've been able to do it my way successfully, so back the fuck off until you show me it's actually better rather than just some weird anal tick of yours that you need to get the fuck over.

Oh my fucking god, I think I actually hate my manager.

I know that no matter what I write, it'll end up incoherent because I'm not even totally sure why.
All I know is that life is difficult and I hate him for making it more difficult because the tiny selfish things he does make it more difficult for me, and I already have my plate full trying navigate through my own neuroses without having to worry about satisfying his when he's not even going to do anything himself.
So yes.

I'm just going to further enrage myself dwelling even more about how he always leaves the dishes on the counter overnight, so then I'll have to soak them even longer, or how he crams the sink so full and won't do any dishes so that he's got no other choice but to put the on the counter, and they dry overnight. Because of course he's above washing the dishes, even though he has this foolproof method that he's carefully cultivated for five years.

So yes. I'm going to move on from his unwillingness to vacuum whenever he has a closing shift, or how week after week he seems to want to leave right when the store closes, so he leaves shit on the table, and doesn't count the cash or anything, and then life is more complicated for me when I have to open and prepare for a party.

There is absolutely no point in going over each excruciating detail, every single one of his inadequacies, and self-indulgences, because if I am too descriptive, I will just stir the pot even more until my feelings boil over and one day I actually tell him exactly what I think, that he probably has ADHD and severely needs medication, that making lists is a very useful thing to do, and that all of his little idiosyncratic preferences don't actually matter since either way, he's not going to be the one to actually accomplish the task.

Which is why I'm totally not going into any more detail.

No. No, mother, you're right. I shouldn't have come back. You never had any of these problems when it was just you.

Yes.
I'm so sorry I had the lack of foresight to come home.

And no, mother, you're right. I don't do anything other than eat and sleep. The dishes that were covered in black ash after the fire washed themselves. The counter miraculously became clean on its own. All the plastic coffee cups you hoard that fell over into the candle (which I knocked over) have nothing to do with anything. The fact that the counter was already cluttered with useless crap did in no way contribute to the fire. It was all me and my carelessness.

And if the carpet and floor where the sink is is wet after all the washing I did to clean up after my terrible irreparable fire, then it's as if I did nothing at all. I might as well have let the fire burn down everything. At least the floor wouldn't have been wet.

I had a recurring about doing a history? project for my Concepts in American Fiction prof. It had something to do with translating a list of words from French and ranking them based on frequency of use. It was on the computer and I was lying on my stomach facing the foot of the bed with one other person positioned next to me and someone leaning back on the headboard, legs entangled in hers. I think the person next to me was my coworker and I may have been showing her something on the computer before the dream became about schoolwork.

My prof was standing somewhere close to the bed and telling me about how my assignment was no good and I started working on it again, when E came into the room, got on the bed and entangled her legs in my by sitting leaning on the headboard behind me and made introductions or smalltalk with my prof.

I tried ignoring it, looked through my assignment, and I distinctly remember that on the list there were nonsensical words that I'd crossed out already as having any use at all, and words like cappuccino and verger mixed in.

The prof just told E about how shit I did on this project and she stepped in to defend me, saying how hard I worked on it and how the list of words just didn't make any sense and she was just telling him everything I'd thought and never said, and it completely humiliated me because he could see my inadequacy, my inability to just get this shit done. My having tried so hard, and yet amounting to nothing. My weakness and vulnerability, completely exposed.

Overcome, I covered my face in my hands and woke up crying.

I was, you know, browsing someone's tumblr, and this person's tumblr's like, dedicated to original poetry and whatever. This person had a PayPal option at the top of their tumblr, and I was wondering if I could do that, you know, with my tumblr. 

If I could declare myself a business and have an option for people to pay me just to reblog things and sometimes write short things about my life. I mean, I probs wouldn't get any donations, but like. The option'd be there, you know? It'd be kind of cool. But also, it'd be kind of weird, wouldn't it?

I'd maybe start to think about pressure and/or feel like I might as well start actually creating content, good or bad, and putting it out there. Which actually might not be such a bad thing. It'd up my productivity, that's for sure. But I don't work well steadily. I work on things all at once, and then not at all. I don't know.