I write poetry that no one reads.
I assume this is a sign of my underrated genius and will be in the movie after I die.
In August, I moved from Louisiana (which looks like a boot with rotten toenail feet) to Washington for a part-time job because I hated my life.
I’m gonna write about that. And other stuff.
GOALS FOR LIFE;
IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER
train one of my two pugs. two is pushing it. Ella will die before I train her not to eat cardboard.
Lose weight. Tired of being as unflexible as a 90-year-old. Also, I got the diabeetus.
I can use words that don’t make sense, WordPress editor. Stop red shaming me.
Leave the house and speak to humans. Much harder than it sounds.
Leave the house to do writing things with groups and such.
Leave the house.
Win big at the casino. One is like a minute from here and slots are fun. They’re picture books for adults. Only they cost more. And no one holds you when you cry at how sad they make you.
Lose the double chin. For fucks sake, I already got no tits and no ass. At least give me a chin.
Kiss a boy. Or girl.
Make things great where I work. Make things better.
Organize all the things or throw them away.
Move to an apartment without insane people.
Make more money because debt is a bitch and I want to go to Hawaii. Or California. Somewhere people use a lot of oil on their skin.
Figure out makeup.
Write that weird book.
Make a friend.
Eat less sugar.
Write better poetry.
Find out why dog has shit breath