A ripped out page

The green monster of jealousy is a dirty, hateful bitch. I want to go to Spain, or anywhere else. I want a job. I want to be the life of the party. I want to make people laugh. I want to be hugged and kissed when I least expect it. I want to be the love of someone's life. I want to be everything I see around me.
I know why I can't write anything lately. It's because I don't feel anything. In the past, I wrote because my heart was on fire -- anger, love, lust, confusion, anything. I wrote because I felt so much, and I wanted to make people who felt, too. But I don't feel anything, so why would I make people who can't feel anything?

Santana watched as her focus on the cheap painting across the room went in and out, in and out, like a disoriented camera lens. She could get up from this god forsaken couch, she could do something. She could work out, call a friend, watch a movie, play a game, sky dive, for christ's sake. She could do anything. Or not. The green couch had eaten her alive, completely, and the cheap painting with its overly manicured strokes had already engaged her attention. I want to go home, she thought miserably, and yet she could not put a place to the wish.
She wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Leftovers from a cooking spree and some bad eggs and cheese peered back at her from the depths. The cabinet yielded even fewer results. She returned to the couch, to her spot, where the print of her rear remained.

See? Who would read that schlock? I couldn't write anymore at the end there. I didn't have anything left to say about this sorry woman's life.