So, it's official. 27. Feels... not at all different from 26. Go figure.
It's silly to make these "big gesture" statements about how I want to change in the coming year, because of course I'm not going to do things perfectly. I'm not going to write every day or keep to a healthy diet or be kind and patient with every person who comes my way. But I'd rather aim high and miss (insert cliche about moon and stars here) than not bother at all.
So, for year 27 in my life...
Top priority is writing Joan. Like, actually writing it. I was talking to Rebekah on the phone tonight about where I was with it, explaining there's roadmap writing and there's story writing. Well, I've been roadmapping Joan for a while. Do I have all my answers? No. Are there still big holes? Yes. But I've been down the road before with Wishbook where I roadmapped my way through years and years until I hit a dead end and just gave up. I don't want to lose this one. I want to sit down and force myself to story write it. I want to give people something to read, some idea of the story bubbling in my head, even if it's a mediocre version of it. Because you can take mediocre and work with it. You can't exactly work with nothing.
A secondary writing goal would be 13 Days for this year, as well as Half Miracle. But the main focus HAS TO BE Joan.
Another priority is to sort out my financials. Pay off my debt, and not get into anymore. Find an apartment. Possibly figure out some form of health insurance. In other words, become a responsible adult. I also want to start saving for the Europe trip next year. Somehow I will make it happen.
A final goal would be to give some thought to spiritual matters. Really figure out where I stand on things and why.
Art. Money. Faith. Some good things to focus on this year. We'll leave other things (Relationships. Career. Etc. ) for some other time.
27. Let's give it a whirl.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
Don't Care
I find I don't care anymore about a lot of things I probably should care about, big things and little.
I don't care what people think of me. Let them think what they will.
I don't care about watching the Oscars. All the speeches about never giving up and the triumph of success in art just sound like the same thing I've heard every year, only now it seems like a lot of empty noise.
I don't care about owning a smart phone. I used to think it would be fun, but now I just think I'd be another one of these people who bury their face in their phone and forget to be wherever it is they're at.
I don't care how I look. Fashion, haircuts, whatever. Used to be fun, trying to figure out how to look pretty, but now I just don't see the point. Why bother?
It doesn't matter. It's all just something more to think about, something trivial, a distraction, a way to occupy my time. I see things more and more as just ways to use up time. Reading and watching movies, deciding to meet up with friends... it's just ways to fill the empty spaces, those time slots that aren't filled by sleep or work.
Never mind that these so-called "trivial" things, these hours of waking that pass so quickly by, are pretty much it. Are pretty much life. If I don't care about them, if I don't care about anything, I'm going to wake up and find it's fifty years from now and I'm still alone and sad and shrugging to myself, saying, "Whatever. It is what it is. Who cares?"
I want to care.
I'm tired of feeling this way, like all color's been bleached out of the world.
I'm tired of being alone.
I don't care what people think of me. Let them think what they will.
I don't care about watching the Oscars. All the speeches about never giving up and the triumph of success in art just sound like the same thing I've heard every year, only now it seems like a lot of empty noise.
I don't care about owning a smart phone. I used to think it would be fun, but now I just think I'd be another one of these people who bury their face in their phone and forget to be wherever it is they're at.
I don't care how I look. Fashion, haircuts, whatever. Used to be fun, trying to figure out how to look pretty, but now I just don't see the point. Why bother?
It doesn't matter. It's all just something more to think about, something trivial, a distraction, a way to occupy my time. I see things more and more as just ways to use up time. Reading and watching movies, deciding to meet up with friends... it's just ways to fill the empty spaces, those time slots that aren't filled by sleep or work.
Never mind that these so-called "trivial" things, these hours of waking that pass so quickly by, are pretty much it. Are pretty much life. If I don't care about them, if I don't care about anything, I'm going to wake up and find it's fifty years from now and I'm still alone and sad and shrugging to myself, saying, "Whatever. It is what it is. Who cares?"
I want to care.
I'm tired of feeling this way, like all color's been bleached out of the world.
I'm tired of being alone.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Monday, December 3, 2012
Sometimes
Sometimes you just have to be willing to write today off, to realize that nothing good is going to come of it, to keep your head down and your thoughts small until sundown, to go to sleep and hope tomorrow's not just more of the same.
Sometimes you have to acknowledge that you are a bad person, and that you are choosing to do the selfish thing because it is the only thing that makes each day not feel like you're breathing in poison. Seriously. I know that when someone is hurting they might lash out in anger at you. I know I should be the bigger person and forgive. But I don't want to forgive. I don't want to be there for her. I'm happier with her out of my life completely. It's terrible, but I feel like she's this cancerous tumor and I've cut her off and I'm able to live life again. She's not a cancerous tumor (that's the terrible person in me talking), she's a human being. And she's hurting. And I should be kind. But some people hurt and some people wallow. And her kind of hurting is the I-must-do-everything-in-my-power-to-drag-everyone-else-down-with-me kind. It's the if-I'm-going-to-feel-this-terrible-I-want-you-to-feel-doubly-so kind. It's the you-haven't-done-anything-to-contribute-to-this-problem-but-I'm-going-to-make-you-suffer-for-it-anyway kind. It's toxic. It's petty. It's poison. And I don't want it anywhere near me.
Sometimes you have to be willing to face hard truths, to realize that maybe what you're mourning here isn't so much the loss of a person but the loss of an innocence. There was a caring and compassionate person somewhere inside me once that has died. I don't care about her. I don't want her to suffer, don't get me wrong, but it's in this vague and generic way that you feel about strangers you hear about during some big disaster relief effort. I feel bad for the people without power or shelter because of Sandy. I would do what I could to help them. But I don't feel any personal bond with them. It's entirely the mild investment of of someone who doesn't have to stick around and see it through. I'll donate my money to the Red Cross and say my prayers for a week or so, then life will move on and my involvement will be over. I want my involvement to be over. I don't want to salvage this. I don't want to be invested. I don't actually care. Her cat is dying. That's sad. My pets have died before. But guess what? It doesn't have to destroy you to the degree that she's letting it. She's wallowing. She's doing the emo thing that I've done many a time before where you practically revel in the sadness. Not really; I mean, you're not necessarily getting joy from it, but despair is an emotional high just as much as joy, and sometimes it's just so very nice to feel. But it's immature and unhealthy and it pisses me off. I don't have the patience for it, for her. I know it seems like I'm turning my back on her, but what you've got to understand is that she turned her back on me a long time before this. Weeks definitely, but in subtle ways I suspect really it's been months. We've been slowly becoming two very different people. Just because we were close when we were little doesn't mean we have to be or even should be now.
Sometimes you can talk yourself into thinking there are good reasons for these choices you're making, but there usually aren't. They are very probably bad choices. You are very definitely doing something wrong. As much as we all want to paint ourselves as the heroes of our own stories, in this one you've got to be content to come out the villain. She's painted herself a victim, you're sick of her wolf-cries, and so you leave her to her despair and go on with life. It seems heartless and cold, but you do it anyway.
Sometimes life just breaks you in half. So you write today off, and hope for another chance.
Sometimes you have to acknowledge that you are a bad person, and that you are choosing to do the selfish thing because it is the only thing that makes each day not feel like you're breathing in poison. Seriously. I know that when someone is hurting they might lash out in anger at you. I know I should be the bigger person and forgive. But I don't want to forgive. I don't want to be there for her. I'm happier with her out of my life completely. It's terrible, but I feel like she's this cancerous tumor and I've cut her off and I'm able to live life again. She's not a cancerous tumor (that's the terrible person in me talking), she's a human being. And she's hurting. And I should be kind. But some people hurt and some people wallow. And her kind of hurting is the I-must-do-everything-in-my-power-to-drag-everyone-else-down-with-me kind. It's the if-I'm-going-to-feel-this-terrible-I-want-you-to-feel-doubly-so kind. It's the you-haven't-done-anything-to-contribute-to-this-problem-but-I'm-going-to-make-you-suffer-for-it-anyway kind. It's toxic. It's petty. It's poison. And I don't want it anywhere near me.
Sometimes you have to be willing to face hard truths, to realize that maybe what you're mourning here isn't so much the loss of a person but the loss of an innocence. There was a caring and compassionate person somewhere inside me once that has died. I don't care about her. I don't want her to suffer, don't get me wrong, but it's in this vague and generic way that you feel about strangers you hear about during some big disaster relief effort. I feel bad for the people without power or shelter because of Sandy. I would do what I could to help them. But I don't feel any personal bond with them. It's entirely the mild investment of of someone who doesn't have to stick around and see it through. I'll donate my money to the Red Cross and say my prayers for a week or so, then life will move on and my involvement will be over. I want my involvement to be over. I don't want to salvage this. I don't want to be invested. I don't actually care. Her cat is dying. That's sad. My pets have died before. But guess what? It doesn't have to destroy you to the degree that she's letting it. She's wallowing. She's doing the emo thing that I've done many a time before where you practically revel in the sadness. Not really; I mean, you're not necessarily getting joy from it, but despair is an emotional high just as much as joy, and sometimes it's just so very nice to feel. But it's immature and unhealthy and it pisses me off. I don't have the patience for it, for her. I know it seems like I'm turning my back on her, but what you've got to understand is that she turned her back on me a long time before this. Weeks definitely, but in subtle ways I suspect really it's been months. We've been slowly becoming two very different people. Just because we were close when we were little doesn't mean we have to be or even should be now.
Sometimes you can talk yourself into thinking there are good reasons for these choices you're making, but there usually aren't. They are very probably bad choices. You are very definitely doing something wrong. As much as we all want to paint ourselves as the heroes of our own stories, in this one you've got to be content to come out the villain. She's painted herself a victim, you're sick of her wolf-cries, and so you leave her to her despair and go on with life. It seems heartless and cold, but you do it anyway.
Sometimes life just breaks you in half. So you write today off, and hope for another chance.
Monday, November 19, 2012
The Unforgivable Sin
According to Christian Scripture, there is one unforgivable sin. I don't know where the Catholics get their thing about suicide, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the sin mentioned in Mark 3 and Matthew 12: "blasphemy against the Holy Spirit."
This isn't going to be a sermon, I promise. It's a metaphor. But give me a minute to lay the groundwork so it'll all make sense. I'm sure there are a number of ways to interpret this passage, but I heard a speaker once who explained it in a way I'll never forget. According to him, "blasphemy against the Holy Spirit" isn't me saying, "Fuck you, Holy Spirit," or "You're the devil, Holy Spirit." Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is total and absolute rejection of the Holy Spirit.
So basically, the "unforgivable sin" is choosing to not be forgiven. And God just says, "Okay, if that's what you want... fine."
I have a friend that I've known for 21 years. She's going through a bad time right now. She feels really stressed and misunderstood. She also has this one fatal flaw: she can't forgive. If you do anything to make her feel slighted or hurt in any way, that's it. Unfriended. Deleted. Gone. No second chances.
I've danced a fine tightrope for 21 years. Once when we were ten-years-old we had an argument. We were swimming in the kiddie pool in her backyard, and I was instructed by my mother not to get my towel wet. She wanted to play mermaids using her towel as a "fin" over her legs and insisted I join her. When I refused, she pulled the towel in anyway. I was so furious, I left the towel and stormed home, barefoot and in nothing but my bathing suit, down hot asphalt and crunchy gravel driveways, until I finally made it home sobbing, and by the time I burst through the door my phone was already ringing and it was her on the other end, and we were both apologizing to each other, and the whole thing was funny and ridiculous, because of course something so stupid could never keep us from being friends.
But sixteen years later, I fear something so stupid has. It's a string of small stupid things - she feels that I purposefully left her out of trips and outings, that I've grown somehow "mean" (and it's true, I'm far more blunt than I used to be), and she has mistaken my concerned consultation with a mutual friend as some kind of disloyal plotting and backstabbing. I've written lengthy letters trying to defend myself, or at the very least explain my motives. I've made apologies, imploring and groveling even when, in all honesty, I'd much rather just smack some sense into the girl, because I know her, and I know that if I don't pull out all the stops, I'll lose her.
The only unforgivable sin is choosing not to be forgiven, but that's the only option she's left me with. I want to be her friend, but if she'll never extend pardon, if she'll never try to consider things from anyone's perspective but her own, if she'll never extend the kind of friendship she expects to receive, if she insists on clinging to her personal grievances instead of trying to push beyond them to a place of healing, then all I can do is mourn and move on and live my life without her.
It's weird losing someone to something other than death.
I think no matter how legitimate your cause, allowing anything to stand in the way of the transformative power of forgiveness and love is foolish and will only bring about your own destruction. That's pretty much my entire religion in a nutshell, from Lucifer's rebellion to Adam and Eve's disobedience to Christ's death and resurrection and return...
God could force us to obey him, but because he loves us he gives us the freedom to push him away. I want to shake sense into this girl, make her keep being my friend, make her somehow go back to the way we once were, but if this is what she's chosen, I have to respect that.
I have to allow her the freedom to choose her own destruction.
:(
This isn't going to be a sermon, I promise. It's a metaphor. But give me a minute to lay the groundwork so it'll all make sense. I'm sure there are a number of ways to interpret this passage, but I heard a speaker once who explained it in a way I'll never forget. According to him, "blasphemy against the Holy Spirit" isn't me saying, "Fuck you, Holy Spirit," or "You're the devil, Holy Spirit." Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is total and absolute rejection of the Holy Spirit.
So basically, the "unforgivable sin" is choosing to not be forgiven. And God just says, "Okay, if that's what you want... fine."
I have a friend that I've known for 21 years. She's going through a bad time right now. She feels really stressed and misunderstood. She also has this one fatal flaw: she can't forgive. If you do anything to make her feel slighted or hurt in any way, that's it. Unfriended. Deleted. Gone. No second chances.
I've danced a fine tightrope for 21 years. Once when we were ten-years-old we had an argument. We were swimming in the kiddie pool in her backyard, and I was instructed by my mother not to get my towel wet. She wanted to play mermaids using her towel as a "fin" over her legs and insisted I join her. When I refused, she pulled the towel in anyway. I was so furious, I left the towel and stormed home, barefoot and in nothing but my bathing suit, down hot asphalt and crunchy gravel driveways, until I finally made it home sobbing, and by the time I burst through the door my phone was already ringing and it was her on the other end, and we were both apologizing to each other, and the whole thing was funny and ridiculous, because of course something so stupid could never keep us from being friends.
But sixteen years later, I fear something so stupid has. It's a string of small stupid things - she feels that I purposefully left her out of trips and outings, that I've grown somehow "mean" (and it's true, I'm far more blunt than I used to be), and she has mistaken my concerned consultation with a mutual friend as some kind of disloyal plotting and backstabbing. I've written lengthy letters trying to defend myself, or at the very least explain my motives. I've made apologies, imploring and groveling even when, in all honesty, I'd much rather just smack some sense into the girl, because I know her, and I know that if I don't pull out all the stops, I'll lose her.
The only unforgivable sin is choosing not to be forgiven, but that's the only option she's left me with. I want to be her friend, but if she'll never extend pardon, if she'll never try to consider things from anyone's perspective but her own, if she'll never extend the kind of friendship she expects to receive, if she insists on clinging to her personal grievances instead of trying to push beyond them to a place of healing, then all I can do is mourn and move on and live my life without her.
It's weird losing someone to something other than death.
I think no matter how legitimate your cause, allowing anything to stand in the way of the transformative power of forgiveness and love is foolish and will only bring about your own destruction. That's pretty much my entire religion in a nutshell, from Lucifer's rebellion to Adam and Eve's disobedience to Christ's death and resurrection and return...
God could force us to obey him, but because he loves us he gives us the freedom to push him away. I want to shake sense into this girl, make her keep being my friend, make her somehow go back to the way we once were, but if this is what she's chosen, I have to respect that.
I have to allow her the freedom to choose her own destruction.
:(
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Books
I am sitting here in my room, and I wish I could post a picture of it. I suppose I could go through the hassle of snapping pics and loading them onto the computer and uploading them here, but I won't. You'll have to draw your own mental picture, using my words. The main gist of it is: I'm surrounded by books.
I'm back to living in my parents' house, and to give you an idea of how big the book thing has always been, there's this: I was given the room with the built-in desk and bookshelves, swapped it with my brother, because even as a ten-year-old I had too many books and they knew this would at least help solve some of the problem. So in addition to the six shelves up there - many of which were childhood books I loved and left here with my parents' permission when I moved out - I've also brought my apartment's worth of books back with me. I've got a five-shelf Ikea bookcase double-parked with books. I've got a little three-shelfer (four if you count the books stacked on top) leaning precariously against the wall below the window. I have to be careful not to move too quickly near that one or they could all come toppling off. I have another five-shelf Target one double-stacked. There are books heaped on my dresser top. Books on the little side table by my door. Books lining the back of my desk, leaving barely enough room for my computer to nestle in there. And those are just the ones I own. There are also the library books (thirteen right now), usually stacked on my bedside table, though currently I have them fanned out across my bed, because I'm trying to make a decision.
I don't know what to read.
That probably sounds decadent. It really is. There are actually a lot of books I know I want to read. I want to read Les Miserables before I see the movie in December. I've been meaning to read Laini Taylor's Daughter of Smoke and Bone ever since I first heard of it. I'm eager to reread Cassie Clare's Mortal Instruments series ever since the movie teaser trailer came out. I have some philosophy books by Kierkegaard that have been calling my name for a while now.
But. But -
I pick one up. Start to read. Get maybe a few sentences in, sometimes a full chapter, before I realize something's wrong. It's terrible. And it's not the book itself that's terrible. It's that it's not right. It's that it's not what I want to read right now.
You know when you've got this craving, and you can't figure out what it is, and you stand in front of the pantry or refrigerator and you pick stuff up and keep saying, "Nope. Not it. Nuh-uh." You can tell all the things that aren't what you want, but you can't put a name to what it is you do want. I mean, obviously if you were genuinely starving you probably wouldn't care what you were eating. Anything would taste like deliciousness if you hadn't eaten for days. So the analogy breaks down.
But here's what I think. I think I can't figure out what book I want to read because I secretly know what book I want to read, and I can't read it. I can't read it because it hasn't been written yet.
I can't read it until I write it.
Ugh.
See, I like writing. But when I really care about something like I care about this story, it's scary and it's hard and there's too much pressure, and I can suddenly think of about a million other things I should be doing besides telling my story. I should be plotting out stuff for next year's Thirteen Days of Halloween. I should be reading so I can reach that goal of trying to read 100 books in a year. I should be cleaning my room, paying my bills, taking a walk, watching that movie rental that's going to be due soon. I should check twitter/facebook/email/tumblr/insert-social-networking-tool-of-choice-here:____. And all those things are good. They're great. They're important. But yet another day goes by and I haven't written a word, and then a day like this comes along - a perfectly normal day, but it's like something inside me just implodes. I went for a walk this afternoon, and something in me wanted to never stop walking, just keep going until I fell over from weariness, without any idea where I was or what would happen to me. Just go, go, go, go, go. Then I came in and was eating dinner with my folks and my mom asks me a completely ordinary question and I open my mouth to answer and I start to cry. And I can't pick a goddamn book to read when I'm swimming in an ocean of them.
And there are phrases that pop into my head at random.
I will fall away backwards up out of this world, and not a soul will miss me when I'm gone.
People recognize a vacuum, and naturally tend to gravitate away from it. That's why you're alone.
There is a void that stretches like a promise, where no one knows my shadow or my name.
That last one is an old one, but it keeps coming back.
The only thing I know is that I'm going to try to write. That I'm going to spend the next few months trying to pay off my debts. And that by this time next year I want to be out of this town. I don't know where/why/how, but I'm leaving.
I love my family and what few friends I have, but other than them and a mountain of books, I've pretty much got nothing to lose.
I'm back to living in my parents' house, and to give you an idea of how big the book thing has always been, there's this: I was given the room with the built-in desk and bookshelves, swapped it with my brother, because even as a ten-year-old I had too many books and they knew this would at least help solve some of the problem. So in addition to the six shelves up there - many of which were childhood books I loved and left here with my parents' permission when I moved out - I've also brought my apartment's worth of books back with me. I've got a five-shelf Ikea bookcase double-parked with books. I've got a little three-shelfer (four if you count the books stacked on top) leaning precariously against the wall below the window. I have to be careful not to move too quickly near that one or they could all come toppling off. I have another five-shelf Target one double-stacked. There are books heaped on my dresser top. Books on the little side table by my door. Books lining the back of my desk, leaving barely enough room for my computer to nestle in there. And those are just the ones I own. There are also the library books (thirteen right now), usually stacked on my bedside table, though currently I have them fanned out across my bed, because I'm trying to make a decision.
I don't know what to read.
That probably sounds decadent. It really is. There are actually a lot of books I know I want to read. I want to read Les Miserables before I see the movie in December. I've been meaning to read Laini Taylor's Daughter of Smoke and Bone ever since I first heard of it. I'm eager to reread Cassie Clare's Mortal Instruments series ever since the movie teaser trailer came out. I have some philosophy books by Kierkegaard that have been calling my name for a while now.
But. But -
I pick one up. Start to read. Get maybe a few sentences in, sometimes a full chapter, before I realize something's wrong. It's terrible. And it's not the book itself that's terrible. It's that it's not right. It's that it's not what I want to read right now.
You know when you've got this craving, and you can't figure out what it is, and you stand in front of the pantry or refrigerator and you pick stuff up and keep saying, "Nope. Not it. Nuh-uh." You can tell all the things that aren't what you want, but you can't put a name to what it is you do want. I mean, obviously if you were genuinely starving you probably wouldn't care what you were eating. Anything would taste like deliciousness if you hadn't eaten for days. So the analogy breaks down.
But here's what I think. I think I can't figure out what book I want to read because I secretly know what book I want to read, and I can't read it. I can't read it because it hasn't been written yet.
I can't read it until I write it.
Ugh.
See, I like writing. But when I really care about something like I care about this story, it's scary and it's hard and there's too much pressure, and I can suddenly think of about a million other things I should be doing besides telling my story. I should be plotting out stuff for next year's Thirteen Days of Halloween. I should be reading so I can reach that goal of trying to read 100 books in a year. I should be cleaning my room, paying my bills, taking a walk, watching that movie rental that's going to be due soon. I should check twitter/facebook/email/tumblr/insert-social-networking-tool-of-choice-here:____. And all those things are good. They're great. They're important. But yet another day goes by and I haven't written a word, and then a day like this comes along - a perfectly normal day, but it's like something inside me just implodes. I went for a walk this afternoon, and something in me wanted to never stop walking, just keep going until I fell over from weariness, without any idea where I was or what would happen to me. Just go, go, go, go, go. Then I came in and was eating dinner with my folks and my mom asks me a completely ordinary question and I open my mouth to answer and I start to cry. And I can't pick a goddamn book to read when I'm swimming in an ocean of them.
And there are phrases that pop into my head at random.
I will fall away backwards up out of this world, and not a soul will miss me when I'm gone.
People recognize a vacuum, and naturally tend to gravitate away from it. That's why you're alone.
There is a void that stretches like a promise, where no one knows my shadow or my name.
That last one is an old one, but it keeps coming back.
The only thing I know is that I'm going to try to write. That I'm going to spend the next few months trying to pay off my debts. And that by this time next year I want to be out of this town. I don't know where/why/how, but I'm leaving.
I love my family and what few friends I have, but other than them and a mountain of books, I've pretty much got nothing to lose.
Monday, November 5, 2012
The Curse of NaNoWriMo
It's inevitable. I log in to my NaNoWriMo page, update my novel title, all ready for the new year to start.... and suddenly my mind becomes a prison. The story idea I was so excited about feels like a cage. Or worse, it's drab and flat and small and I can't do anything with it, and I write a dozen useless pages, stuff I'd be ashamed for anyone to read ever, stuff I don't enjoy at all, and why? Because I have to update my word count every day because that's the point of all this. So I churn out a mound of drivel just so I can say I'm writing something.
It's not fun. I feel cheap and stupid doing it. This isn't what I love about writing. I hate this. It makes me want to scream.
But every year I think it's going to be different. I get excited, because during the month of November, everybody's pumped about writing, the way I feel about it all the time. Many of my friends dive into their own creative projects. It's a wonderful sense of community. That's a great energy to be around.
But NaNoWriMo isn't for me. I've finally come to terms with that. I'll have to write my novel some other way.
Fuck you, word count widget.
Goodnight.
It's not fun. I feel cheap and stupid doing it. This isn't what I love about writing. I hate this. It makes me want to scream.
But every year I think it's going to be different. I get excited, because during the month of November, everybody's pumped about writing, the way I feel about it all the time. Many of my friends dive into their own creative projects. It's a wonderful sense of community. That's a great energy to be around.
But NaNoWriMo isn't for me. I've finally come to terms with that. I'll have to write my novel some other way.
Fuck you, word count widget.
Goodnight.
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