“No one wants to hear about your failures.”
It’s probably true, but I’m tired of the might-as-well-give-up-on-this-too spiral. So here I am. Writing about how I’ve failed. Again.
Will I have time tonight? I just got invited on a weekend trip, and I plan to meet Twitter for dinner.
Excuses, excuses. Line ’em up, predict what could possibly knock ’em down, and remove those things from your conscious memory. EXCUSES FOREVER.
I need to remember to put on the outfit the moment I get home. Once the clothes are on, I feel like too much of an asshole sitting on the couch and nursing a beer in workout clothes. Like Rachel sitting around in her wedding dress.
Yeah. Friends reference. I AM TOPICAL AS FUCK.
Self-motivation has always been some mysterious, mythical creature to me. It’s as absent as my sense of direction, and other people just seem to HAVE it, or at least, the ability to acquire it. I do nothing unless other people are relying on me to do it, and even then, I wait until the absolute last second.
No one I spend my time with gives a fuck if I live healthily. Therefore, I don’t give a fuck if I live healthily.
Or, I do. But. Excuses. They’re warm and soft and easy to curl up in. Emotional hibernation. How long am I going to stay wrapped up?
I’m so tired of nothing happening in my life, but… I don’t know.
Normally when I feel like this, I hop a plane to visit the internet. But that’s not exactly within my budget right now.
Besides, I just did that in September. It’s obviously not as effective as it used to be.
I guess… that’s all, for now. That’s all I’ve got in me. Maybe I’ll find some inspiration later. Maybe I’ll have a personality transplant and jump back on this horse with both feet forward WOW JESS THAT’S NOT REALLY HOW YOU JUMP ONTO A HORSE YOU SHOULD RETHINK YOUR METAPHOR SELECTIONS.
As it stands, though, I make no promises. About running, OR metaphoring.
(god i’m so inspirational, club can’t even handle me right now)