I want to write something, but everything I write turns out like crap.

She paced the floor, unwilling to accept the news she had just received. "Not happening." She muttered over and over as he stood in the hallway staring at her, "It's for the best you know that." He said softly. She turned and looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time.
"What the fuck do you mean, it's for the best?" she demanded. She had finally stopped pacing and now stood with her hands on her hips. "You wouldn't fucking know what is for the best." she threw up her hands and resumed pacing. "For the best my ass." She started muttering again.

He sighed and pushed off from the wall he had been leaning on, "Have it your way." He told her over his shoulder before entering the room they shared and closing the door behind him. He looked at his suitcase, half packed. He was leaving, he finally told her that he wasn't happy. He told her that he was sick of her drama and the fights she'd throw just because she could. He sat down on the bed, the weight causing the springs in the mattress to squeak and groan under him. He bent over and picked up a roll of socks and tossed them in along side his jeans and shirts.
He paused when he heard something slam against the wall and then shatter as it hit the floor. And in that second he knew he was making the best choice.

I can't create things in my mind like I used to be able to, and it's distressing. I've stopped playing mafia because the same shit happens over and over again. No matter what I write, it's the same crap I've spewed out before.

I need to get my ass in a writing class where people will push me to write, suggest changes and things to make my writing better. Because lord knows the shit I'm working with now isn't worth reading.

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