frustrate.

Dear Daniel,

I write this in the midst of my constant procrastination. What I mean by this is that in the other window of my internet browser is my online math homework which I am about, oh, 3 hours into, and i am only 60% done. This writing itself is also product of procrastination, as this was "due" on Friday at around 2, and I had forgotten about it until this very moment.
And now I write.
Why am I writing this? Not this actual blog post, but the above words. I guess it is a little cathartic.
Why would you care about the context? I don't know. I am adding this note as my roommate begins to snore behind me, free of the chains of constant lethargy and apathy that is bred from my constant search of self-satisfaction, be it from video games or books or friends or anything.
I am sorry, this isn't supposed to be about me, this is supposed to be meaningful. And i should refer to you by your last name, as I am not your peer. I think. Let me try again.

Dear Daniel Borzutzky,
As I listened to you in my class, I couldn't help but bite my lip. "Here's a man," I said to myself, "who is living my dream." What could I say to someone like that, or ask? I mean, obviously, you are human too but... What questions could I ask? "What do I have to do to live in Chicago and be an author?" How is that an answerable question? Surely the answer lies not in my inability to be a good student. As I listened, I couldn't help but feel my constant frustration. I asked you about your process in writing because I can't write what I want to. I simply can't. A story escapes me. Characters, a timeline, a setting, it all slips through the cracks of my keyboard. Every story in my head sounds like a cliche. I don't know. I feel like a wellspring of past ideas with the same characters albeit with different names. Such is my frustration that I will never do what I want to do. But in all honesty, you gave me a little hope. If you can do it, who says I couldn't? Maybe someday I will break free from this perpetual writer's block, if I am truly a writer.
Who knows.
I guess I will just wait and see.
And in the end, it just looks like I wrote about myself without asking you any questions or bringing up anything meaningful or thought provoking. This "letter" reads more of a journal entry than anything. Why would you care what I have to say about myself?

Thank you for coming to our class. It was incredibly interesting, more than you know. I am going to look up your writing.

sincerely., Vincent.