And honey, I confess that it was criminal.
Oh, the reason the night is long is very simple.
And such.
I’m sixteen. I’ve two years until I graduate—or, one and a bit to be optimistic about it. I am, on the whole, rather lazy. An odd quality, considering my ‘pastimes’: writing, guitar, dancing frantically, photography. Moreover, it’s odd that I elect to play video games all night long over any of these more often than not.
Stupid as it sounds, I’ve got a remedy: I’m going to write a book. This event will not take place in twenty years anymore; I will begin now (I think I’ve already begun, at that). Ulterior motive: somehow manage to sell my drivel and not need some type of part-time job.
It’s a lofty goal, truly, but one I think I might be able to pull off. Even having a ‘completed’ ‘manuscript’ sitting in my writing folder might somehow please me. Granted, I aim to have it done with by the end of high school, so it may be a little—how to put this?—crap. It’s just that a couple grand to call my own might help.
My first true goal in life is, primarily, a material one: I want a little cash and a physical book on my shelf. Sure, that thing they call ‘satisfaction’ is involved in some capacity, and popping out two hundred pages will likely flourish my writing style a mite, but when it comes down to it I’m just waiting to finish that acknowledgements page and get the hell out.
So, what’s the one conclusion I can bring this number to?
Dunno. I’ve got to write the introduction first.
(hardeeharhar)
night.
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