#groupiewriting

I would probably be way better dressed. Classier, less slutty. I would wear proper underwear to a concert. I would have finished Uni years ago, taken on a job that provided some sort of meaning and income. And I probably would have never told T. that I loved him and then nothing of this would have happened. But where’s the fun in that? That scene, that evening made me who I am. And I guess I’m getting better at this, at least the last adventures suggest so. But if I wasn’t this complete idiot, I would rely on the fact that I am smart and funny and likeable without cut up shirts and make up that could better be described as warpaint. I would probably have quit my last day job years ago, because honestly, nobody should have to endure that. I should have taken up writing random short stories and self-publishing them years ago. But whatever. I was too caught up in my own drama, created by that T.-situation. And he’s not even the protagonist or main love interest in this story, just the catalyst. Hey, can I call my 20-year-old-self and tell her? And I thought you need to *feel* a story to be good at writing. News flash: writing is just a job, like any other and some chores you do not because you feel them, but because you have to. I’m glad this whole pandemic is happening because without outside influence I would still be stuck in this dead-end of a life plan, writing, crying and having anxiety attacks. Now I’m laughing, looking at the news with eyes wide open like the news anchor is the eighth wonder of the world, singing “don’t look at your phone“ when the government is holding a press conference. And hey, people seem to like me posting about the schedule every day. But actually I am being a massive idiot, because let’s face it, I only do this because I miss the structured chaos of my old life - the good bits: the concerts and their running orders, the train schedules and scribbled down notes on how to get to my hotel (I don’t trust having phone reception everywhere I go) or the venue, the meticulous planning of the night nights before with my best friend and a glass of something. Hell, if I wouldn’t be this complete and utter idiot, I could probably go without obsessing over all these details.