Perhaps I, Too, Will Sing About the Blues

Well, my brain is just a big clusterfuck of what. Reading in my spare time makes me want to write and expand on my own stories. Which I then quell when I write about a sentence or two and frustration ensues. Never mind that in-between reading and finding the motivation to write creates useless titles for stories/chapters that I'm sure I'll never use. Seriously, what the hell am I going to do with a title like Dead Men Talk of Poetry? I'm not even fond of poetry wtf

On the bright side, at least comments for my blogs are getting done. At a rather slow pace because of my constant oscillation between motivated and lethargic, but it's better than nothing.