There is nothing going on outside.

There is nothing going on outside. My therapist Dana and dad tell me I should go outside but there’s simply nothing happening. I keep hearing people online say that you can’t be a good artist (or creative in general) without having an interesting life. That whole thought weighs me down on me hard. I hate living the boring life I do despite wanting to be a good writer. It’s like a fish wanting to learn how to fly.

Every writer in the universe worth a fuck wrote while also having interesting lives to draw inspiration from and I got nothing. I’m just some boring teen who does nothing. I haven’t survived any wars, been to another country, been in a threesome or orgy, or done anything cool in general.

I can barely write this sentence right now. Help me. I feel so awful help me please. I don’t know what to do. Everything feels so pointless. I go outside but there is nothing there. Nothing to do. Oh god help me please.

Why is there nothing happening? I hate this world. I hate my life. I wish I had money. Money is good. Power is good. Power makes your dreams come true. Like my dream of fucking long haired dudes who remind me of Ian Fowles. Or my dream of wearing Ray-Bans wayfarer sunglasses while also bleaching my hair blond and going to a tanning bed to have really dark skin. I also wish to be 90 pounds and I’m wearing a dark blue tank top, some casual and sleek beige shorts, slip on vans (which I actually have) and black socks. In other words, I dream of being very, very beautiful.

I’ll go check again if there’s anything going on outside..