Meg Dowell Writes

I was sitting outside of the cardio room at school yesterday journaling because I was angry at the world, for one mysterious reason or another. I didn’t even bother to look up as a classmate approached me and proceeded to wait with me for class to start.

“You journal too much,” she said with a smile. “You’re going to get arthritis.”

And at that moment, it suddenly dawned on me that I have a serious addiction to writing in my journal. But I can’t help it! I have so many thoughts. And talking gets really tiring sometimes. Especially when I have so much to say that I have to talk a mile a minute, which irritates some people (no matter how hard that is to believe). I can’t help it if it calls to me in the middle of the night: “Write in me! Do it! I need you!” It does. I promise.

I want everyone who’s reading this to know that I am not an unhappy person. It seems lately that the things I write about are depressing, which could potentially label me as a depressing person. But I’m not. I don’t believe in fairy tales. Life isn’t perfect. Just the same, I don’t believe that fiction has to be overly fictional. If I’m going to write about truth, well, sorry, but the world is a very unhappy place. I just choose not to be like the world, intead write about it.

I’ts almost one o’clock. I’m still in my pretty pink robe and puppy slippers. They’re both very comfortable, by the way. That’s why I really don’t want to go anywhere today. I waited all week to sit around and stay warm. I’m tired of wearing shoes! And as weird as that may sound, it’s true. It gets upsetting after awhile.

I’m literally itching to watch Season 3. Luke and Lorelai haven’t made up yet after their huge fight (which almost made me cry, by the way). It’s not fair! Ugh.

It’s happened. I’ve run out of things to say.