just not posting everything I write. No, what you type is no good, go stop sucking. Go do more things to throw fuel on the fire. Without an influx of raw material you smother. But then when you go do things you can be stressed about it. When I move around in the world I’m afraid of making imperfect observations. Missing the most clever angle on something. If I don’t get it right then my editor won’t let me publish it. My editor is me. He’s kind of a dick, real hard to impress, but thank God he’s there. If you could see the slush pile of dumb half-thoughts in my head you’d want to euthanize me.