I keep telling myself that I am going to sit down and write but I can’t. I just can’t get the words to come together- no matter how hard I try. I want to try but the more I try, the more I stifle the words. Like trying to bring them into the world chokes them. If I could get them out, I would write about how much I hate spare time because my thoughts are my worst enemy. They can’t be productive because they keep telling me to give up. I would write about a hero in a tight skirt and a tighter ass. I would tell you about how cute she is to offset the bad-ass nature that drives her to greatness. I can’t do that because I don’t know how. So what do I write about? What do I know? I could write about being a chubby young person. I could write about being the whitest Mexican in the room or the most liberal person in a room of republicans. I could write about being alone? That seems to be the most pervasive quality.