I hate my photography. I hate my writing. I hate my voice. I feel like I’m incapable of doing anything well except take up space for some genius who died too soon. I’m surprised I haven’t deleted all of my writings and photos in a fit of rage like a painter who burns all their work because they know they’ll never create a masterpiece.

I also know I’m due to start my period next week and will probably be relieved I didn’t make such a drastic decision at this specific juncture.