Can't string a sentence together for the life of you, and yet still fancy yourself as the natural successor to Samuel Pepys?
Seriously, who's actually got the time to toil away endlessly at practicing and perfecting their craft, or even actually reading a book to get an idea of the dynamics involved?
You've got better things to do like doom scroll, scratch your derrière, or subscribe to the latest conspiracy theory flavour of the month, and yet feeding delusions about your artistic worth as an auteur can still be accomplished.
So, don't fret.
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