February 28, 2005 l 1:25 a.m.

I hate that I can't seem to find the time to write anything productive. It saddens me to know that sometimes, the most writing I do for days is filling out hold tags for the refugee/nica/balsera/colombian/indian/santera/more money in their wallets than I have in my bank account all month/bitches.
I need to be productive soon... I can feel it. If I don't vent out some creative juices I may implode... who knows. I think I am frustrated at the place I have put myself. I didn't get here on purpose. I suppose if I would have listened to all my older peers I would have had enough sense to get school outta the way. Of course, first I woulda had to pick a course of study ... easier said than done. I am aware that there is "great potential" in me... that is what people have always told me. What if they are all wrong; completely and totally wrong? what if they just mistaken my inner confidence and knack of remembering random trivial bullshit for intelligence. What if I reall have lived past an early prime in regards to developing potential? The very thought that my happiest of times have passed scared me to death almost more than anything. The possibility that I may never be more than some overweight part time assistant manager at " Marianne" scared the bejeezus outta me... that and the fact that I feel I may be beginning to look old. I guess looking old is like conforming to what you have. I don't wanna be old... I don't want my prime to pass me....