I waste most of my writing time searching for the song that will jumpstart the creativity. It’s eluded me up until now. There’s just so much clutter in my head; I bring a lot of my work-related grievances home. And these grievances usually deal with writing, which poisons my passion for the craft. I’m not a work writer. I tried working for a now defunct newspaper ages ago, but journalism isn’t my craft. It may be yours, but I don’t see myself thinking that way.

Because [redacted] can’t tell the difference between creative writing and press releases, she assumes they’re within the same school. When I took up the current position, the fight in me expired. She kept insisting that my creative muscle was what the press releases needed to get butts in the seats to all our events. Untrue, because every piece I’ve written since last year—and there have been tons of things I’ve written plus tons more that I’ve edited (i.e. rewrote) for others—has been sliced to its bare bones. Meaning, no matter how much flare and fluff I put into a piece, the newspaper editors take their scalpels and slice off the meat.

As of tonight, my anxiety is high. I’m slipping into a depression without a promising end. I’m grumpy 98% of the time. I’m making unhealthy choices in my snacks and lunches. And going outside is becoming too much of a chore. I much rather stay in bed and cry every morning when my alarm goes off than I would go into work. Because I can’t cry there. I can’t show a single emotion, because to do so would mean that she’s won. And fuck all if I let that slithering piece of dog shit think she’s won.

So if I fall off the face of the planet on this blog—the two of you who read this blog—know that I’m ok. Somewhat.

And Isabel, please let me know if you’re ok.