Complainer Says Nothing

Today, after wasting away in bed for a good portion of it, the day I mean, I recalled how creative I used to be when I was drinking and snorting coke all the time.
I was a relentless writer and passionate observer of the beautiful minutiae. Notebooks upon notebooks of writing. Where are they now? In a box in Texas. My life.
But now, I'm boring. Bored. Bland. Sad.
I have no creative outlet. Only my class writing but I have to follow the rules of journalism and can't express myself the way I would. Anyway, I don't have anything to write about.
Berkeley is so artificial. It is impossible to take anything away from it but, "oh, that’s Berkeley." There is no grit or fire or bruises or iridescence.
It is lame. An old hag from the past that can't move on. A retirement community that serves itself and delves into delusions of grandeur on how they work for the greater good.
Wow. I love to complain.