I’m not sure why I can’t write about normal things, why I don’t have a blog I can show to my boyfriend or co-workers or mother. Well, I don’t really share anything with my mother, so that’s an extreme example. But still, I get jealous sometimes of people who seem to be so effortlessly productive. Prolific. In an acceptable, inviting way. Every writing job or task I’ve ever had has made me curl up into fetal position and weep like a little baby. All I'm equipped to discuss is my feelings. I have a toothache about six miles long.