I get scared to put this pen down on the paper.
It can be such a waste. Not much else scares me at this point.
I'm watching an old woman do this laundry like Charlie Bucket's mother and I think about Tom, and doing my laundry next to this guy who basically changed my world view.
He does his laundry too. And so, you know, ironically I moved to his home town and maybe he's in LA right now doing what I could be doing, but I'm not.
I'm here, wasting my gifts and feeling saaad, aww tragic right?
"Do we only need to keep working because it pays rent?"
Would I follow my heart, or keep my good job?
One day I'll get back to Gainesville and just TRY, even though Chuck says not to.
I'll be damned for picking up this pen because I might fail. And if that motherfucker can still do his own laundry, I can at least keep trying to write.