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Published Work

Why I Write

The Scribe

I write because I'm a scathing, egotistical, perfectionistic cloud of dust that wants to make everything in its path dirty.

I write becuase it gives me a sense of control over something. It allows me to do what I want, when I want, with whoever, whenever—it gives me power. Power, and authorityBecause those are things I lack in the real world.

I write, because I have a mind filled to the brim with pictures and stories and information that I want nothing more than to share; and I lack the talent to share it in any other way than with words.

I write because I was chosen to write. I wasn't given the option, or asked if it's what I wanted to do—I was thrust into this world with nothing but my body and my ability to manipulate words in my favor. 

It's just how it is. 

All in a Name

My Name

My name is a set of rules.

It's who I'm supposed to be, but it's not who I am.

Not anymore. 



I woke drenched in sweat.

The air conditioner had long since turned itself off; you still had the thick woolen hotel blanket pulled up to your chest. 

Moonlight shone in through the blinds; the only other light was from the previously rumbling, now silent air conditioner under the window—it displayed an 81 on its screen. The light it gave off made it hard to see anything but the 81, even after you'd looked away from it, or closed your eyes. 

I tried to ignore the heat, out of laziness, but after a few seconds of squirming around on the bed, and throwing all my clothes on the floor, I gave in. I pushed myself up and hobbled over to the unit; I let the little green 81 light my way. When I got there, the buttons almost refused to press, and every time I managed to click the temperature down a degree, I was beeped at harshly, and the temperature...

Open Prompt

high functioning anxiety

high functioning anxiety looks like 


  • perfectionism
  • stubbornness 
  • overachieving 
  • stoicism 
  • immaturity,
  • a well put together person with a lazy streak. 

when it manifests it's channeling your energy by biting your nails so much they bleed and so often that you can't feel it anymore; it's tapping your foot so quickly the entire table shakes and only buying clickable pens so you'll have somethingto do with your hands and the loud pop! your wrists and knuckles and ankles make every. single. time. you crack them in succession to try to relieve yourself of just a little bit of the inexhaustible tension you have and ripping the skin off your lips with your teeth until they're red and swollen and bleeding and the clickclickclick you hear as you realize every other person in the room is on the verge of finishing their work and you've written three words seventeen different times and the overwhelming feeling of each and every one of...