Everything that I love, I suck at.

Life is unfair, it's funny how fucked up it really all is.  I love music more than anything, ((headphones in now)) but I can't play an instrument.  I love singing competitions and karaoke but I can't sing. I love to write but I am not very good at it. I always dreamed of writing this amazing story about my fucked up childhood; teenage angst, or my failed adulthood while taking breaks at some corner desk looking out the window at my glistening pond. Well this duplex with my mother-in-law hiding in the bedroom like a teenager with headphones in, just begging to be left alone will have to do. Maybe it's just my run on sentences. Who knows but the point is, I feel like I have something to say and no one cares.  This life of being a writer whether published or not, is a lonely life.  The hope never goes away if it's truly your destiny so here I stay.