I'm a master at criticizing my mindset. I'm a master at fantasizing of romance and pretty people at the most inopportune times. I'm a master at rampantly writing elaborately detailed novels in my head. And I'm a master at forgetting to write them down.
I'm a master at bad luck. At drinking wine. At saying the wrong damn things at the wrong damn time. At making my favorite people uncomfortable. At ruining friendships and families. At locking myself in dark rooms for fun. At being fucking awkward. At being unsure and indecisive about everything I do. At drowning in my thoughts and then quietly complaining about them to my only friend who gets me. At drooling over anyone who's nice to me. At forcing myself into other people's stories. At keeping all things on the tip of my brain in a tiny jumble of bullshit. At romanticizing everything I want to say seriously. At turning anything said seriously to me into dirty, lustful poetry.
I'm a master at so many things but not a single one is worth it.