“What are you doing?”
“Trying to write something that doesn’t Suck with a capital S.”
“Doesn’t sound so hard.”
“You’d be surprised, look how this is coming.”

I slam my laptop shut with more force than is likely good for it. My neck hurts from the way I’ve been sitting and my vision is starting to blur in the corners. I slide my feet out of bed and let them hit the cold wooden floor.
I immediately regret going outside. Outside seems like a fun, adventurous place from bed, but when you’re out there it’s dark and the grass is wet and dewy and you didn’t think to bring shoes because you were being spontaneous and fun. But now that I’m out here, I know I can’t go back in yet.

“If you ever want anything worth writing about to happen, you have to start doing stuff.”
“That’s stupid advice. If you were meant to be a writer, you would actually be able to write.”


Even though I’m not actually breaking rules by walking barefoot down my very sheltered street at 11:30, it seems dangerous and not worthwhile. Sitting in the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, I feel blatantly idiotic.

“This isn’t a movie, what do you think is going to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think a cute guy is just going to fall out of the sky and see you sitting here in the dark and sweep you off your feet?”
“…”
“Newsflash, you know everyone that lives on this street, and the only thing you might get from them is mocked.”


Lying there, looking up at the stars, I want to say I feel something profound, that I have some resonating epiphany in the depths of my mind. Instead, I feel a gentle breeze that nips at my exposed arms and makes the hair on them stand on end, and also more than a little ridiculous.

“I hate being a teenager.”
“Yeah, I think being in general will do that to you.”


Back in bed, I fall asleep quickly, and dream about not being.