I need a priest because I have a confession. I have a couple of confessions. Confession number one: I don't know if Catholics confess to priests. I am mostly ignorant when it comes to Catholicism. Here are some more confessions for your pleasure and horror:
Confession: I love and hate my writing. I love it because I sometimes come up with these really great (humble opinion!) phrases and genius (I'm a genius!) ideas. I hate my writing because it is all half-baked. They are just idea seeds, not flowers. And it is too flowery without the actual flower. I am abstract and wooey wooey and feel like I'm a freshman again in creative writing one-oh-one.
Confession: I obsessively bake vegan pumpkin cookies and hide them in my room. They are accidentally vegan. They do not accidentally end up in my room. Is my OCD an accident? Nature Nurture Nutella Nuremberg Iceberg Titanic Sink Ship I Am A Sinking Ship. I am more of a tugboat, not a British passenger liner.
Confession: I have not had my period since the spring of 2011. My bones are like a type of confection, consisting of flat broken pieces of hard sugar candy embedded with nuts such as pecans, almonds, or peanuts. In other words, my bones are brittle! I cannot have children! I save a lot of money not having to purchase tampons. Help.
Confession: I miss my wooey writing. It was almost a distraction. Confessions are too much for me. Confessions don't distract. Confessions look everyone straight in the eye. Confessions confront.
Well, this break from floofiness was fun for a second. Smell ya later.