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I'm a writer at heart, and through every inch of my body.

At night, I dream of the words I'd write if I were awake.  
My waitress book is filled with half written ideas for stories that will never find their way to filled pages of my slanted writing.  
When a professor mentions that the class will consist primarily of papers, I feel a thrill of excitement where the other students groan in almost physical pain.  

So it's always confused me that when I'm so happy I could burst, or have something to say about my own life or to someone in my life, or somebody is upset...words escape me.  
The thoughts bounce around incoherently and never come out that instead I stare blankly like a woman that can't use words.

I can write you a story about a couple that is not me and the words will flow beautifully.  But in my own life when asked to respond to something, I'm lost for words.  

But I am happy.  
So very happy.

Day 74