So, yeah, lying in bed, thinking about my last post, thinking about that story I'm writing. The Playboy thing was just an offhand sarcastic comment, but then I thought more about it. It would never happen, because the magazine has actually aggressively dumbed-down their content in order to better compete with the even-softer-porn magazines. The other funny thing is that, if they were to run it, that would actually create the most likely circumstances of my dad reading it. (The emotional content I discussed revolves around father issues, to put it mildly) So that would be funny in a hurtful kind of way.

But god, yeah, I feel bad for writing something so, for lack of a better word, emo. I mean, I think it's good writing. And for a second I thought "Well, at least I'm not writing about some kind of failed romantic relationship." The next second I thought "Haha, it's not like I'm ABOVE doing that, it's probably just for lack of fodder." Which is... I want to hyperbolically say that's ninety different types of depressing, when in fact, it's actually only two types of depressing. Two very specific types.

I hate myself.