I’m starting to feel almost strangely proud of the shittiness in my own writing, which is strange—now let me explain: I’ve just dropped The Golden Damned 10, and was writing it in a coffee shop where admittedly some of my anxiety got in the way and I did not all the way focus as much as I might have on the task itself—more or less autopiloting my writing process and therefore producing especially shitty prosetry. Reading it back though, as much as I am revolted by how strangely unreadable—how annoying and difficult-but-not-in-a-good-way—it is, I still find myself almost admiring the fact that it’s as shitty as it is. As though the creation of terrible things can be a point of growth for the creator. Though I’m not totally sure. It’s just a strange sort of feeling. I’m also a bit sleep-deprived now, and am missing the plot on probably a lot of things. I think, though, that to be lost in the midst of stimuli like this and to not know things, sometimes, that that can be kind of a beautiful thing. Especially when you have enough wherewithal to be aware you’re not seeing the whole picture. To recognize your own faults and see in them the potential for overcoming those things. Maybe. Maybe I’m just tired of seeing everything in such a negative light. Maybe I want to reconcile some things. I’m not sure. But I’m not going to take the tenth The Golden Damned down, I don’t think. I appreciate my own inability, sometimes. Hindsight is a blessing. Fucking up is a blessing. Living with your fuck ups is a blessing. Maybe. I don’t know.

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