My Real Life: Part Two

I realize that this is a rather pointless thing to worry about, but I often find myself thinking: “Why did I ever stop writing?” Sure, I am writing now, but I wish that I had written more when I was a teenager. I wish that I could say that I have been writing for “x number of years” and feel a sense of accomplishment or possess a body of work. I suppose it is that I hate doing things “late” because I do everything late. I hate that I didn’t apply myself fully until now.

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