Eunff. Who is the harsh critic in my mind? Can't seem to read my own writing without shaking off the burning fingers of silent dread running through my spine. I feel like a ghoul sliding his slimy snake of a tongue over his own jagged, crusty teeth and shivering in delight with the gleeful horror of disgust. Analogous to the mind-numbing curd-y feeling of chalk squealing in between your fingernails as you torturously claw a vile verdant chalkboard. Ugh.
My own writing seems so ...caricature-ish. I'm missing that silver tongued touch that seems to appear only in the light of the moon. Too much sunshine in my words, too much pep, too much shallow happiness.
Time for some revisions.
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