Letter from a Stoic

Law school killed my soul.

Every day used to be a rollercoaster. The lowest lows, the highest highs, and back again. It was torture, but at least I was alive. A flirty text from a cute girl was enough to launch me into a manic state for days. Likewise, listening to a single Nirvana song could send me into a death spiral.

Now, nothing seems to matter.

Maybe it’s because I’m older. A lot of changes take place in the brain between the ages of 20 and 25. Maybe meditation and fish oil and n-acetylcysteine are the perfect cocktail for zen transcendence.

Maybe it’s because I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead of a worthless bachelor’s degree, I now have a J.D. that’s arguably less worthless. Earning a living no longer seems out of reach.

Maybe it’s because I’ve fucked a few more girls. Their allure diminishes with each successive notch. Which of course improves my chances of further increasing my notches. Ain’t life funny?

Maybe it’s because of heartbreak. The heiress dumped me when she found out I was fucking the fashionista. I dumped the aspiring model when I found out she was fucking the photographer. The army brat left for basic training. The Italian girl split as a preemptive measure. I cut off all contact with the hippie because I didn’t like her tattoos.

On and on it goes.

When my emotions were a kaleidoscope, I wrote a novella that wasn’t complete garbage. Now, I’m lucky if I can force a blog post. My brain has whiskey dick.

Everyone wants to be a writer, but no one wants to write.

It’s easier to put in your required time and then veg out in front of the TV. Drinking a beer is more tempting than putting pen to paper. And even when I do start writing, naked Snapchats do their best to lure me away.

I’m going to give it a few firm shakes and force it, though. It’s time to rise to the occasion. I’m going in.

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