iM bRinGiNg seXy bAck

Funny how people who suddenly dropped out of your life some odd months ago suddenly blast their way in with same audacity and teeth-gritting tootsy-pacutesy. And looking like Judas Iscariot at that. (Jervis, quiet.)

And isn't it just annoying that you have to forego being part of something you've always dreamt about just because you're stuck with the newest terrorist tool that's trying to pass off as a 3-unit subject in this oh-so-Catholic university of yours?

And don't you just know that the world's shot to hell because you're stuck in class with Satan's favorite douchebag while someone like


is being paraded in all his steroid hotness not fifteen minutes away from you?!

And then, isn't it just so freaking peachy that the part of your melted mind that's in charge of the only thing you thought you could do great at -- that this must be the key to your future greatness -- is currently under maintenance for an as-yet-unknown period of time? That Creative Writing land has been the victim of extensive biological warfare, whose cause is not limited to those McShaker fries? That the freaking cursor on your dusty laptop screen just blinks and blinks and blinks and blinks. Plook. Plook. Plook.

Tell me, Majo Larosa, gatekeeper to the Land of Liquid Writing: who do I have to sleep with to finish your story which has to be kick-ass (oh, no pressure, none at all) or else all silly dreams of becoming a writer are forever dashed because if I'm not good at this then I'm not good at anything at all and will probably experience identity crisis leading to ultimate breakdown? And wow, what a long question.