Fabulously Bore It's all empty. I don't know why this happened. I don't know what it means. I do know that I feel guilty. A writer must practice her craft. I also know leaving thoughts in my head only leads to the jumbling of reality. Maybe it's that I've finally realised I'm not going to be what I know I should have become: a writer. And the only reason I quit the dream is because I have the self-confidence of a cripple on the starting line of a marathon. I'm not going to succeed in my dream because I simply gave up on myself. I gave up on the thought of uncertainty. I cringed at the fact that I would have to expose my work to some entry-level publisher. I became a literary malingerer. I am a literary malingerer. And, oddly, I accept that title, because it keeps me contained from the big bad world of reality. So no, I'm not healthier. I simply died.