I open a Word document every day and stare at the pulsing cursor. What to write? What will matter? What is worth saying? And I come to the conclusion that I have nothing to say, nothing worth the effort of putting finger to key.

I think I’m empty. Cored out like a Halloween pumpkin. Bereft of motivation, I slam the laptop shut and turn my eyes toward the TV and watch another meaningless show. Mindless girl watching mindless TV. After a few hours, I retreat to bed. My day has been unproductive, and I have expected nothing more of myself.

I think I am perhaps too terribly dull to want to write anything here. A post about my house. Big fucking whoop. A whopping one person will read this post, and even he probably only does it out of kindness to the poor boring girl without an original thought in her head.

I don’t paint. I don’t sing. I don’t know how to fold napkins into swans. I don’t play music. I don’t make art. Well, I try to make art, but I fail in the attempt. I don’t make cool podcasts or video diaries, I don’t have any HTML knowledge or any computer knowledge for that matter to make this pathetic blog look cool. I don’t do anything with my mind or hands worth talking about.

I am the talentless. The empty human who must needs walk the earth all her days so the people with talent will feel all the more talent-filled in comparison. I’m the jar that isn’t even half empty because no one bothered to put “half” of anything in to begin with. I am the empty, the ugly, the useless, the lame. I am a void in the world that has taken shape and dressed in ratty clothing.

I have accepted that I am empty but all the same I wish I were one of you. So talented, so beautiful, shiny and new like a nickel that a real person would jingle in their pocket. So I watch you and I wonder what it must feel like to be someone.