No room for hat

I hate that my day doesn't feel accomplished unless I've written something. Not just something, but something I like when I read it back.

I hate that I cannot end a sentence without first fixing the beginning. Same with paragraphs. And thoughts.

I wish that I could read through others' eyes. I guess that would require thinking through others' minds, which is why it's impossible. Same reason you can't look at yourself in the mirror and not see, just, yourself.

I hate that I have to be in the mood to write. I need to be in that zone to do anything worthwhile. And I hate to admit it, but I can manufacture that zone. I'm capable of it, at least, when I really need to make it happen. Procrastination is my willful refusal to be productive.

I love writing and reading and thinking and writing about reading and thinking and reading about writing and thinking and thinking about reading and writing. You know?

I hate the font Papyrus. Don't use it. Also Comic Sans, though I admit to heavy usage between the years of 1996 and 2001. We were all young once.

I hate that I can't write something poetic without scrunching my nose at it. Judging it. Rewriting it until it's a little more logical, a little less touchy-feely. Fewer dreamy clouds and smoky waters, more hard lines cloaked in secrecy. But the reader can tell when something isn't genuine. You can count on the reader to see through you.

I love that I can write things in a room by myself and then have the audacity to put it on the Internet, where everyone in the world can see it.