When every hip kid believes that writing is their passion. When every cent you make is devoted to shit that isn’t worth saving pennies for. When you’re crying over bullshit that won’t matter next year. That’s when you realize you’re in a gap. A hole. A canyon. Screw it. When you’re laying in your bed staring at the distant blinking light of your laptop and you feel like the overly-sensitive upper middle class young adult that you are crying over petty life occurrences that people you don’t give a shit about wouldn’t dream of giving a shit about.

Whatever.

And then you realize that you’ve jokingly been throwing sarcastic remarks about the uselessness of your life more this week than you have in quite a while and then you start to think of how different it would be if you weren’t joking. Get over yourself. Because that’s not possible. Life isn’t useless, but these worries and problems and tears on your pillow that blonde country girls would love to write a bullshit Billboard hit about are useless.

You’re taking life too seriously.

Whatever.

Get over yourself, and other angsty phrases of an overly sensitive college girl.

Blah blah blah and blank thoughts lacking substance. Words surrounded by too many adjectives strung into a hardly eloquent run-on sentence that attempts to describe your thoughts. Paragraphs of bullshit that make you feel your worth. Words next to other words forming blocks of words that attempt to reassure you that there is some kind of substance to your thoughts.

But let’s be real. Let’s face it. These are petty.

When all other poetry-writing hipsters and every other angsty female with a laptop exists. When you realize you’re a starving student but every paycheck doesn’t feed you. When you’d rather observe your shrinking waistline than waste the time buying nutrients. When the dress is cuter. When you forget to feed yourself because you’re too busy living in the moment and that’s okay with you. When the moments are ruined because you’re an introverted hopeless romantic sensitive little freak. And you like to insult yourself just because it feels good.

That’s when you realize it’s time to give up.

Whatever and other angst.

Because your mind gets clouded when there’s too much excess excesses but for some useless, pointless, worthless, senseless reason you like the excess excesses. So you hold on, despite what the entire world is shouting in your face. Because your head is in the sky

again

and your feet are not on the ground

again

and you’re looking up rather than straight in front of you

a g a i n.

And it’s life-shattering, world-crushing, end of the world worse than world hunger and genocide and earthquakes and other things that matter because you’re too sensitive and you like to blame it on your zodiac sign. But you’ve heard it before and you’ll think it again—it won’t matter a year from now.

So put on your big girl panties or just your pants in general or whatever other saying middle-aged women with too much time on their hands have made up and LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. Look at what matters. Let go of what doesn’t. Stop giving country girls a reason to make pop singles about love and teardrops, etc. Look, let go. Look and let go. That’s it.

And take your own advice. “Inspirational” and advice-filled ramblings to an invisible audience will only get you so far. Change the world, one day. Maybe. If it doesn’t explode, keep trying. But until that happens, just read your own words. In your own head. Not as someone else. Read them and process what you’re trying to say as an actual message and not just something that will hopefully look good in a future worst-selling compilation of essays and crap.

And stop using an ominous and vague “you” when you’re trying to have revelations and realizations and renovations when you’re just so obviously giving yourself an excuse to talk to yourself, just like all the other hip kids with a laptop and maybe a pen.

Get over it.

Whatever.

And other angst.