Now my ashtray's overflowing and I'm still staring at a clean white page.

I’m replacing words with pictures. I’m exchanging anguish for a camera. I fell in love with a lens.

In December of 2010, I wrote like mad. I had some time to think. I was getting odd flashbacks. To people and events I hadn’t thought about in just as long as I had forgotten them. And then there was the sudden urge to document it, to write all of it down before I forgot the most key details.

I had forgotten that my boyfriend in high school had applied to the same university as I had. Then I started writing, and memories stored from the compartmentalized cabinets of my mind were being re-catalogued. I remember snooping through his mail to find his acceptance letter amongst his other college acceptance letters. At the time, I stayed quiet. I liked knowing that he didn't know I knew. You know? I had patience back then. I knew he would tell me, eventually. I would hold this superiority like a badge of my anger above his head.

Then we fought about how he didn't tell me anything. About how he went behind my back and applied to MSU without consulting me. I made it about me, again.

Imagine how bizarre it would have been if we would have gone to the same college.

Part of me was writing to prove something. Wanted to prove to myself that I could write about other topics. That I could escape from my broken heart and write about when I was 18 years old and I thought I knew what a relationship was.

I wrote of my flaws, mostly because I had a lot of them. I still do. I still exhibit them from time to time. I write about the lies I told. The manipulation I so carefully planned. How I tricked people into believing me.

I wrote about my nine months in Bozeman. When I lived in the shadow of mountain. I lived in shame and my paralyzing depression made me seclude. My coming out wasn’t painless. It hurt like hell to face what I knew I was.

So I thought that it would be good to write about basically every significant relationship I had up until that point. This was my subconscious rationale.

This strategy eventually failed, however, when my bitter feelings got the best of me. My most popular and controversial post was the most brutal punch I ever packed. The wound was still fresh. I was kicking with steel boots while my enemy was already down.

And now I don’t like to write. I haven’t found a storyline to work with anymore. Not like those stories aren’t interesting or well thought-out. They’re perfectly decent stories. I'm even surprised by how well some of them have turned out.

But these plot devices are getting tired and it hasn’t really accomplished anything. I don’t know how much longer I can re-hash the same thing before someone tells me to shut the fuck up already.