I don’t understand what I’m supposed to write about. There is nothing. No one wants to hear another story about white girl problems– myself included. But, I’m not creative/advanced enough to be able to change my stories into someone else’s. 

I’m not a recovering drug addict; I haven’t popped out any kids. I’m fucking 22 years old, still don’t have a bachelor’s degree, and if I do have a drinking problem, I’m in denial about it. Also I’m poor and wait tables, but single moms have laid claim on writing that story.

There is nothing. And the few things I do have, the stories that have fucked me up the most, those don’t deserve to define me. I don’t want to let that be the only thing traumatic or powerful enough to write about, because I’ve moved on. Those memories don’t own me anymore. 

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