Headphones playing some hell grinding djent, tucked sloppily on my pallid cheeks. Chocolate flavoured coffee, swimming with drowned ants and turning stale on the corner table. Me, splattered with filthy liquid and desperately pulling an all-nighter on an ugly portrait painting, as the initial panic attack-induced mania that once fueled my motivation slowly wanes and quietly saunters away to Apollo’s Neverland, probably carrying along with it the remnants of pencil shavings and biscuit crumbs on the utter devastation I call my desk.
I think might be going insane.
Well, this is what I get for procrastinating too much, I suppose. My personal crippling folly—apart from being tardy without fail no matter the urgency at hand, and being unable to function normally around human society in general—is to stall on accomplishing a crucial task for hours until it turns to days and weeks and heaven forbid months and so on and so forth, while putting all my wasted faith on the completely false hope that I’ll be able to pull through at the very last minute, with the right amounts of heart-stopping caffeine and unbalanced brain cells kicking up a hurricane named anxiety in my thick skull involved. Even though I know it would never really work, and I’ll just inevitably end up with a lot of lowkey physical and emotional trauma and a below-subpar output that’s so far out from my initial expectations that it’s not even fit to be used as a local public loo arsewipe.
Ladies and gents and everyone in between, there is no mystery left to solve in the unbaffling case of the stupid college dropout, is there?
I mean, I swear I actually do want to finish this (if not for myself, then for the damn person I’m breaking my strained neck for because they’re awesome and deserve this much at least, they really do) but hell, why do I even try at all? Fuck’s sake, I’m not an artist. I don’t know how to actually properly draw or do cool mindblowing artsy things for shit. I’m just too fucking unskilled for that jazz. Pretending, that’s what I’m talented at. Pretending to be pretentious. Fake it till you still fake it. And now look where it’s gotten me.
👏 Absolutely! 👏 Nowhere! 👏
God, I honestly wish I could trade places with my cat right now. Or any cat, really. Lazy bastards, doing nothing but eating your chonky hearts out and scratching at things and oversleeping all the time and being a dumb bitch and looking cute and snobbing everyone out and living a luxurious life for it. Career goals right there, let me tell you. Why can’t I just be one of y’all.
But I digress. It’s time for a time check, no phun intended (okay, that second pun was. if you catch my emo drift, ahah). 2:57 AM. It’s been roughly more than three hours since I first embarked on this personal little project, and while I’ve barely made a dent on the soggy watercolour paper resiliently taped down in front of me, I have spent maybe a quarter or so of the aforementioned hours typing this…whatever this is, down on my phone like a sad, lonely sack of slowly-rotting flesh. More than ever, the familiar, almost comforting sensation of self-resentment weighs in heavily again; on my sandpaper tongue, down my badly-crooked and aching spine, on the perpetually unfading dark circles under my exhausted eyes that make me look like a wasted panda and an actual roadkill raccoon fucked around with each other and threw hands (or paws?? idk) in a nearby dumpster and I’m the end result of their bad night. Fun times.
Wait, hold on a second. Idly slacking off, hating myself severely, and quickly losing grasp of my humanity and better sense…all three of them simultaneously? Awesome. Right on schedule. It’s time to get back to work.