Writing is a gift.

I've taken it for granted.

Those queer days where nothing comes to mind prove it. I used to be able to sit myself in front of a keyboard and happily write with a flair and creative style that felt natural, now it just all feels totally forced. It's fair enough, I haven't been very good to my body or my head. Serves me right, some might say.

These days, I feel like I'm doing nothing but using the same old rhymes in different contexts. I've always gone through phases of using certain words, but now it feels like I'm constrained by the use of them. When's the last time I wrote for fun? When's the last time I had fun while writing?

All my recent deviations are living proof that I'm running out of ideas. I feel terrible because of it. I've abused this power of writing, the one thing that I could ever do that none of my other friends could even understand, and now it's starting to show.

What happened to all my creativity and imagination? All my rhymes follow the same pattern now. All my journalism is missing the most obvious of details. All my fiction seems bland and stale.

Drugs, they opened my eyes to a whole new world of literature and letters, and now drugs are trying their damndest to keep my eyes shut.

But I like them, and if I didn't have them, I wouldn't have any friends at all (and, as any social pariah might tell you, fickle friends are better than no friends whatsoever). I think I'm alienated now, if I quit drugs, I'd simply turn into a boring, fucking recluse. I feel trapped in a pit of chemicals and angst.

New Years Eve is nearly upon us. I have several resoloutions to make.

1) Read more books
I'm getting alot of books this Christmas, from Ginsberg to Thompson to Burroughs to Welsh to Orwell to Fitzgerald to Burgess to even some Acosta. I plan on reading them all and learning all I can from them. Literature is truly an amazing thing, and I don't read enough of it because I'm such a lazy idiot.

2) Redraft Book
Once reading my little heart out, I'll knock the foundations out and begin anew. Some bricks may be saved, but I'm basically going to disembowel everything and rebuild, one word at a time. So I'm not going to finish my book by my 18th, and I probably won't finish by summer, but I'll write this hallowed tome out in full if it kills me. I don't just want a diary, I want a semi-fictional piece of art. I'll put these new lessons into practice and craft a new story.

3) Give up Facebook
Yeah, this is mainly because FUCKING PROCRASTINATION SUCKS.

4) Give up drugs
Even if just for a month or two, I need to regain that motivation, that spark, that shining light of inspiration at the end of the tunnel. Yes, I like drugs--the buggers have fascinated me since I was 11, but that's no reason to focus my entire life on them. I need to know what it's like to think with my own head on my shoulders.

Besides, I'm beginning to taste a semi-delirious weed psychosis again. My destructive/self-destructive urges need to be curbed.

5) Get A Job!
Seriously, in the year ahead, I'm going to need at least some type of regular income. I'm 18 next year, after all. I'm going to need money for games, music, books, films, clothes, gigs and festivals. If I don't get a job, I'm going to have a right shit year.

6) Make more friends
Yeah, well, I'm lonely.

7) Give up the DIRTY DIRTY SMUT!
I was I could say I was joking ¬_¬

8) Form An Alt-Rock Band
No, I'm no musician, but I am a lyricist who has at least a novice grip on bass playing. What use is lyrics without the music to put it to? I suppose this also somewhat ties into make more friends (I can't see a very successful Alt-Rock band being formed out of a couple metalheads, for some strange reason...)

and finally 9) Be Happier, you miserable sack of shit
Misery will only get me so far in this life, angst isn't much of a selling point when your legally an adult.