Bleurgghh (barf noise)

I wish I was a good writer. I want to be able to plop my skinny ass down and pump out page after page of "good" literature. Mostly just like psychological fictional stuff, but anything else would be great, just to get it out there. The only problem is, I often try to write more complex ideas (or even just focus on the structure of my ideology), you know, usin' "big words" and "long" sentences with a lot of "feeling", in my journal late at night, when it's just little old Niels sitting in his room being a Pouting Pete. That's when I have all the time in the world, to sit cross-legged on a faded, teal carpet in the dirtiest tank-top I own (smells of beef gravy and horse vomit (I don't really know what horse vomit smells like but I sure as hell know what beef gravy smells like) ), and jeans that have broken down to pieces of faded black (green) denim that have been sewed together with shaky hand. Hence, they provide unyielding comfort. Anyway,  as I was saying, that's when I have all the time in the world to think about myself. A space heater burning my knee, the room so thick with incense you feel your breaths become shallower and your heart rate slow, and my cramped hand hunched over an almost-finished journal. 

I forgot where I was going with this.

Miss Angry helped me along but she's gone now. It's my fault too. If she wasn't gone I wouldn't be sitting here typing this seemingly absent-minded collection of paragraphs.
Miss Angry. My girl in the river.
If she was still here, I wouldn't sleep at the Bennion's humble home (throat growl on both h's) every other night, and wake up with Karla Bennion shredding paper next to my head. I also wouldn't be enjoying her excellent buttered biscuits for breakfast.