Just one of those days when terrorism seems like a good idea

I want to write something. I mean, not just blog, or write articles. I want to write a book, or a screenplay or a short story maybe. But there are just a lot of things to write about. I know I have got a lot of material on my sheet to work on from, but I’m just not confident to share any of them to the critical public, nor am I any closer in trying to sort them into some semblance of a genre. I think I’ve become a rambler, really. I don’t know how to easily organize all these supposedly “exciting” vignettes of my “remarkable” twenty-five years of life into what I have been picturing out when I was thirteen as my “masterpiece.” And I know I was better when I was that age too. I’ve lost my touch now, I think. Lost it in all the panic and terror that has become my everyday life. No, I have not become a terrorist. Would have sounded less disappointed at myself if that were the case. Were that the case, I would have felt accomplished, contented that I have a purpose to the world, even if it is merely to destroy it.[Sad face].