Writer’s Dementia

My thoughts are fleeting and fickle.

I have so many drafts saved in my WordPress journal that I just can’t seem to finish. Whether it’s me getting bored or even feeling like I just don’t have to explain myself to you people, it’s always something. Some of my unfulfilled collection reads:

“I envy my boyfriend quite a bit.

I’m jealous of how easily he can make friends and get along with people. I wish I could do that. My problem is that if I don’t like someone, I can’t bring myself to pretend to. People can feel how little I want to engage with them. “

“I feel like Patrick Bateman sometimes…”

“10 of the Sexiest Lines from Opal Carew Novels!”

The articles start off well-written so I know I haven’t lost my touch. My writing talent is something that I will allow myself to gloat about. My ability to turn a raw and gritty diary entry into a picturesque story. After about two or three paragraphs, I lose my focus and am unable to finish. It’s like having amazing sex and working towards an orgasm only to get to that moment. That pure second where you erupt into bliss and everything falls into place. But this time it doesn’t come. Pun definitely intended.

I lose my train of thought, my view of the matter changes, the reasoning doesn’t make as much sense as I thought it had. I get dementia. Writer’s Dementia.

Speaking of dementia, I’m terrified of growing old. I would almost rather have it end when I’m 50 or 60. That gives me 30-40 more years on this earth to enjoy it without having to worry about Alzheimer’s or a broken hip.

I mean, I can’t even begin to wrap my head around the idea of that. If I already have this chemical imbalance balanced out by Zoloft, Clonopin (or as an annoyed reader/commentater said, “You know it’s spelled K-L-O-N-O-P-I-N”. Actually, my passive-aggressive viewer, it’s spelled C-L-O-N-A-Z-E-P-A-M.), and Adderall, what will become of me then? What the fuck will they dose me with??

If my brain finds this life so scary that it feels the need to completely detach from reality, what will happen when I start just forgetting stuff like my husband’s name?

No thanks!

Anyways, hmm, what has become of this blog: It went from 100 views to 153k views. It began as an online diary and a way for me to express myself. Then, it became a fashion journal, mixed with little sneak peeks into my life. A month or two later, we start talking about SEX, MUSIC, READING, PARTIES & EVENTS. Still, you all preferred reading about my sex life and old druggie days the most. A month ago, it went back to what it started out as: Me just being me.

Do I love fashion? Yeah, but not enough to be a style blogger.

Do I like music? Yeah, but not enough to report on the latest Taylor Swift album.

Do I like movies & TV? Yeah, more than the other stuff actually.

Do I like…

I like human beings. I like making observations on how humans behave. My favorite being the humans who work in the fashion industry. But really, all humans are fun to watch… to test… to study.

And, I like my life. Maybe it’s become a bit more boring than it used to be in my “glory years”. I don’t know, I like it. I like it like this. I like getting drinks with friends at Buccan on Palm Beach, I like having my sister 15 minutes away from me, I like falling asleep next to the man I love.

I’m not done with being a blogger yet. As much as I love my wifey-type life that now involves school, I’m not going to stop being wild 20-year-old, Megan, who writes about her every thought and notion. It’s just not going to be as often.

Escuela and reality are calling!

I’ve forgotten to announce that I’m on a plane and we are landing shortly.

Au revoir!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s