So, there’s this thing which I have. A condition if you will. It might have many a name, and is intertwined with a couple of afflictions - anxiety and inadequacy to name two. And its name is Impostor Syndrome.
It’s real. It’s there. It’s documented - check it out:
And it sucks. Not in the Cal-Skate/ Val-speak kind of sucks, but in the very real, soul sucking and debilitating your every work ambition kind of suck. You know, the crushing kind.
Lately, my old friend is back. Which might explain why I still haven’t gotten started on putting together a portfolio, digital or otherwise. Why I’m putting off (dangerously, might I add) studying for finals and other scholastic work. Why I find myself reacting weirdly to the guy who’s been paying me honest compliments lately. Sucks.
But I seem to have discovered something which helps me cope with this ailment. And no, it ain’t liquid or smoke-shaped. Writing seems to help. Which is how I’ve found myself to be doing just that lately, and why quite some of it might come your way. Lucky you.
Flexing that literary muscle!
>teenage actress’s private nudes get leaked
>teenage actress is reviled as a slut and a whore and a bad role model
>james franco asks a seventeen-year-old girl if he can meet her in a private hotel room
>james franco gets to go on saturday night live and joke about what a silly doofus he is for soliciting sex from a girl literally half his age
DO NOT DARE OVERLOOK THIS POST
So this needs to be shared…
The true mark of maturity is when somebody hurts you and you try to understand their situation instead of trying to hurt them back.