Don’t get me wrong. I write.
I wake up in the morning, pick up my phone and one of the first things I do is write – generally it’s a response. I’ll be messsaging someone back, maybe it’s a boy who trusts me a lot and wants to be my friend (to be fair the most recent batch of friendly boys at least reciprocate and help me with Contemporary Social Theory, or write me reviews), either that or one of my contributors has emailed me to ask a question I’ve already answered on the Facebook page.
In class, I write. Notes, and thoughts. Except in Contemporary Social Thought, where I tend to squiggle in margins and cover the inside of my notebook with bright pink & purple, lime green and blue patterns tessellating from the corner. And a very small “fuck Marx” hidden in the corner.
I’m literally paid to write. But, even that’s a stretch, I’m not employed as a writer, I’m employed as an editor. In the places that I truly am a writer I’m sure as fuck not paid.
I feel like I’m so, so busy, but then I sit on the couch all night and do nothing.
Maybe I want to blog once a week?
Fuck knows, let’s see.