i realized today that i will never be a great writer. this is the reason.

it is impossible to sound romantic or sincere when acknowledging the existence of the mobile phone. there is nothing dramatic about my heart skipping a beat every time i receive a text message from some girl i wish loved me. texting is a silly thing that has no place in literature. i’ve never liked a book where a character used text messaging as a meaningful form of conversation. not that i’m complaining. i’ll take what i can get. but that just doesn’t make for good prose. which is something i probably cannot write anyway. also being able to reach someone anywhere at any time is completely absurd. if i loved someone i would stand in the rain and put quarters into a payphone just to hear the answering machine tell me no one is home, or wait for weeks by a mailbox for a letter to give me the news about the wedding that i must interrupt by confessing my eternal love.

i’m hopeless

just in case anyone wanted to know what i thought