Dear blank page,
I’m tired of looking at you, wishing you would be less glaring white, and more full of text. I plan to scribble my thoughts all over you and ruin your pristine smugness, because you suck. I hate it when you appear over and over, acting like you should stay the way you are, unchanging, ever there and in my face. You rob me of my creativity. You make me feel unworthy. You don’t seem to be around other people; why don’t you go and bother them for a change? Everywhere else I look, I see full pages, written blog posts, published articles, canvases full of color and style. But you, blank page, you plague me. You seem to gloat over it. You bug me so bad.
I wish you would go somewhere to die. I wish I could crumple you up and tear you into little shreds. Oh, the satisfaction that would bring me. But I know you would only be replaced by your brother, your cousin, your aunt, all of your blank relatives, marching in an ever-growing line to haunt me.
Blank page, why do you exist? Why are you so hard to get rid of? How come whenever I see you it paralyzes me? What is it about you that makes me so uncomfortable? You make me want to…
just hit Publish
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