Here I am, writing about my boring inner thoughts. It feels as awkward as hearing someone take a dump in a public bathroom.
I had to look up how to spell the word shitty. How great is that. Splendid. I recently discovered that I am a hardcore procrastinator. Seriously. And that I have an affinity for describing myself with witty words that start with the letter S.
Enough stream of consciousness. Time to journal.
Change. That's what this journal is about. Specifically my change. I find it harder and harder to do certain things. For example, I can longer sit up straight in a chair. How sad is that. (As sad as the fact that this journal is probably going to live in some obscure corner in the interwebs). Anyway. The slouching. As a high school student, I'm forced to sit in god awful chairs that pinch one's vertebra, flatten one's buttocks, and stab one's right ribs. But it's not the chair's fault. It's my own. Senior year is upon me and I'm barreling to graduation day, eating up school days like a cheetah ripping through a gazelle's sweet ass. So, sitting up straight? Not the biggest priority right now.
Writing. That's definitely changed. For the worse. I'm taking so many writing classes, that rhetorical analysis is second nature to me. Meaning that I can no longer enjoy literature without ripping the content apart with the "Hows" "Whys" and "Whats" of analysis. The worst part is, that as I write this, my inner troll is condemning me for not being more interesting or using enough pathos to persuade my audience that this, indeed, a shitty journal.