unfiltered

Sometimes I have these urges to write, but I haven't the idea how to start. 

I feel as though taking a few writing courses in university stifled me. They trained me to stop and think of some witty way to ''grasp the readers attention'' yet it also freed my mind to write down whatever (even if it made no sense) just to keep writing non stop for X amount of minutes. That is actually a lot more difficult than it seems. To write out the random thoughts in your mind as they come along and not fuss about the gramatical erros grammatical errors or giant run ons. 

One method I found hilariously bizarre was when the professor said ''the best advice I've been given as a writer is to write when I'm drunk and edit the next day when I'm sober.'' Well it was a highly amusing idea at the time for I envisioned some striving novelist hunched over his desk with a bottle of scotch half emptied adjacent to his clumsy fingers typing madly as curls covered his furrowed brows. The next day he'd have several pages of peculiar wisdom and strange ideas of brilliance- of course with a few spelling mistakes and the random word tossed in there due to his drunkardness. That was when I had never been drunk in my life, nor seen a drunk in person (yes at the ripe age of 19 I hadn't abused alcohol nor drank it until the day I turned 19). 

Now that I've fully witnessed how idiotic and impulsive  most drunks can be (I unfortunately remember a time I was a mess and I didn't enjoy it one bit nor did my friend). How anyone can enjoy doing that to themselves every weekend or even daily baffles me. It's not as hilarious or pleasant as hollywood portrays it. I can most certainly state that creative genius or any spark of intelligence is far from the average drunk. In fact I find them rather annoying, well the ones I currently live with at least.

I did not sign up to baby two alcholics and cook them dinner every night after a long day at work as they sit on the couch slamming down cans of beer when there's juice in the fridge and water in the tap. I don't agree to picking up the dishes left on the table the following day as cans cover the coffee table. I'm done being nice and listening to the same irritating rambling and storytelling. I've heard that story before it's lost it's brilliance. It's dull. 

Oh how I want to go home so badly. Why am I still here?

No I know why I haven't written in a while...I can only write the truth in my life and at this moment the truth hurts. I'm not a fan of tears welling up in my eyes and burning my face.

Don't feel bad for me, not all days are terrible. Yesterday I had the house to myself and it was wonderous. I was content, back to the usual routine of being home. I felt like a was home for that brief day.