So the slightly optimistic last post was a complete lie. I pretty much got nothing done this summer, like every single summer before this. It's okay, I guess, because the reason I didn't get anything done was because I was being lazy. As always, it's my fault. It's no big deal.
I have tentatively quit writing again. Honestly, I never really took it up again. It stresses me out so much and I get so anxious and hateful toward myself that it isn't really worth it anymore. It's not escapism; it's just hell. At the end of the school day, I don't want to be as miserable as I am while I'm there, so that means brain numbing with the internet.
Whoo, procrastination sucks.
Maybe one day I'll be able to write down the stories in my head without turning into a mental case, but that day is not today, nor was it this past summer. I've been reading a lot, though, so hope isn't lost. I'm still addicted to stories, but not the creation of them. Which is also okay.
