It's been a while.

And for that, I apologize. I just haven't had much to say. But recently I've been wanting to become a legitimate blogger. Someone who gets real followers, someone who writes in this thing every day. I feel like that would help me become a real writer.

I have this picture in my head of what a real writer looks like. A real writer drinks multiple cups of coffee or tea every day. A real writer has a glass of wine with dinner. A real writer has a desk. A real writer wears these incredibly chic clothes that she's bought from the thrift shop, or consignment stores - she rarely buys anything new. A real writer has books strewn everywhere, each and every one of them with a worn down spine from overuse. A real writer has stacks upon stacks of notebooks filled with random scribblings and ideas, and most of them are tiny nuggets of gold that could be turned into something valuable if cultivated. A real writer is thin, because she lives from paycheck to paycheck, and is constantly running around looking for another job to help make the ends meet. A real writer has long hair that is usually up in a bun or ponytail, but reaches halfway down her back on the odd occasion she lets it down.

None of these things are true for me. I have this picture in my head of what I should look like, how I should act, what would make me a real writer, and I can't live up to it. Instead, I am me.

Okay, this has gotten insanely off-topic. Maybe I'll post something real later. I just feel bad that I've been neglecting this blog for my Tumblr, which isn't really a ~blog because all I do is reblog other people's posts, for the most part. I doubt if I posted any writing there I would get any response. Mostly because you can't comment on things there... Though people can comment here, and don't, so I don't know what I'm talking about. Excuse me while I go try and wrap up my crazy.

            I want to live in a cute apartment in New York City that’s decorated with fascinating knickknacks and furniture that doesn’t go together but fits and works. I want to be thinner and taller, a size four and five six. I want to have wavy hair that comes down my back just far enough that I can put it up into a messy bun and look artistic. I want to wear these clothes that shouldn’t go together either, but just like my furniture, they work. I want to be known as that writer girl, the one who’s always carrying a notebook or a laptop, always scribbling or typing away at something. I want to laugh with friends and drink crappy red wine with our pizza and French fries while we get into debates about anything and everything. I want to have a dog that jumps up every time I come into the room, who attacks my legs with glee when I come home from work. I want to have a job that I love going to every single day, I want to have coworkers that I go out with for drinks sometimes. I want to wear big sunglasses and not look like a bug, I want to be drinking coffee every morning and be unable to function without it. I want my teeth to be straight and white, cute little rows of white Chiclets in my mouth. I want to have men staring after me as I walk by, only to look away when I catch their eyes and smile. I want to strut down the streets with my head held high, knowing that I am a sight to behold and anyone looking at me is doing so out of admiration, not disgust. I want to have a blog that everyone loves and talks about. I want to be free of my family; I want to be happy; I want to be loved. I want to go home at night and curl up with my dog and a good book. I want a roommate that I love, who challenges me to do my best and vice versa. I want to learn how to cook exotic dishes and not-so-exotic dishes. I want to be part of a community of writers, who sit down together and discuss their stories and their characters and everything else. I want to be writing every day. I want to have a box full of journal pages that I’ve printed out, to save for a rainy day when I’m wondering what exactly I was thinking when I was sixteen, seventeen, and so on. I want to have artistic talent, instead of just creativity. I want to be a character in a book, complete with my own special happy ending and guy of my dreams. I want to live this life that I’m thinking of, the life that I’m trying so desperately hard to describe, but can’t seem to grasp the words for.