I’m sitting in my car with the heater running because it is still balls (stuck) to the wall cold outside. There’s are probably 10 people at my house. Not people, friends. (Not that my friends aren’t people. Never mind.)
I’m sitting here by myself on my kindle in a parking lot because the crowd of people at my house are laughing and joking and already-drunk while I am sitting and thinking and ready to write. It’s these sorts of times I hate being a wannabe-writer. When my friends look forward to Friday night’s with a mind towards fucking and drinking (and both at once), all I’ve been thinking lately is how much I want to curl up and read in my fort and have no one disturb me.
There’s no one stopping me from doing exactly this. It’s just. Whenever I’m home and there are people there and I’m not hanging out with them, suddenly I feel like the jerk who’s ignoring her friends to post another picture of a cat on Tumblr. It’s the worst feeling. Like guilt, but more suffocating.

Ok. I’m exaggerating. I don’t post that many pictures of cats.

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