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Gone, gone, gone

I have no idea what to write about on this blog, the backspace on my keyboard is completely worn out.  Every time I try to put my thoughts down, and every time that I am reasonably satisfied with what's been documented (mostly just cliche observations,) I delete it.  I delete all of it.  Every last word.

Nothing left but a blinking curser and my dead eyed reflection on the screen.

When I was in junior high school I was steady in my drive to be a successful writer and I couldn't see anything that would stop me.  In high school I continued on with it and spent the brunt of my nights jotting down short stories and tucking them away under the mattress.  I was so afraid someone would find them and point out to me how bad they were, or worse, notice how badly I wanted to sound like an adult.  Even if these little tales were indeed discovered, and even if they were praised for the amazing chunks of fiction that they most definitely were, there was still reason to hide them.

Most 16 year old boys don't end every story with a graphic sexual encounter between two men.

When I left home for the first time and moved out on my own, I took all of them with me and immediately tucked them under my new mattress.   A week later my girlfriend told me she was pregnant.  I burned them on the stove in a frying pan.  

I burned it.  I burned all of it.  Every last word. 


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