Every once in a while, I have an angst fest about the imaginary lives of other people. In my mind, other people spend all their time making art and songs and poems, instead of (as I do in my real life) watching cruddy comedies from the seventies on Netflix. And youtube videos. And reading facebook profiles of such mind-numbing inanity (is that a word?) that I have to resist the urge to smash my head repeatedly against the table top. Why do I even do Facebook?
I feel bad that the urge to create, if I have it, is so lazy about its job. It ought to be telling me that the time wasting I indulge in is... um, a waste of time. Why is it not arresting my hand as it moves towards my laptop and turning it towards, like, yarn? Or something, you know, with arty potential?
Urge to create, you're fired.