roll your eyes, teenage style

My attention span is equal to that of, perhaps, a hermit crab or chipmunk. I can’t get anything done, I never finish a project, my spaces are covered in half-finished jobs. There are canvases with paint and pencil lines, ambiguous shapes and colors. There are notebooks half-filled with half-stories. There are documents on my computer where the words stop flowing abruptly, midsentence. My nails are frequently half-painted, my room half-cleaned. I can’t hold onto anything long enough to make it real.
I’ve started sketching in red ink, the red ink I use for to-do lists and doodles and making notes in a pad on my desk. It flows wet and bold from my pen and the drawings I make are nothing, really, but I do finish them, or finish the parts I care about. I think it’s lovely that I am drawing pretty little schoolgirls and beat indie-rawk hippie boys and 60s semi-superheros and fat, disgusting women with rolls of flab. I think the more-or-less accurate line drawing of my camera is something special. It’s kind of a shame this pen is running out of ink.