Other stories for this prompt

My whole life people have teased me for my looks.
People think that what is one the outside matters.
They made me believe it too.
I was called so many names :4 eyes,nerd,overweight and manymore.
I went home crying everyday and self harmed myself, I would cut myself and chock myself.
When I turned 32 I realised that nothing matters and the picture above ( you may not see it ) is the last picture I took until I went to hevean.

Alfred Cappachino looked out at the swirling mass of humanity, a stupid grin plastered to his face to hide his abject terror. Which one of the lovely women in the throng was his blind date? He adjusted his spectacles for the umpth time, then reconsidered and pulled them off, wiping the lenses on his shirt before returning the accessory to the bridge of his nose. What did she look like? All he knew was that she'd be wearing a 'geeky' t-shirt, whatever that meant. Geek was chic now though, right? Hence, his glasses with the clear frames, his strategically-parted hair,...

I've forgotten how to do this...how to just sit down, and type out my thoughts, or my feelings. I find that I'm constantly carrying my notebook around, with my favourite Pilot pens...and then I will sit, and I sit, and sit...and nothing happens anymore. In my room, in boxes and boxes, are books and books and books. Countless stacks of written word from a lifetime's worth of contemplation, emotion, trials and tribulations. But now....now I cannot seem to pick up the pen, or tap on my keyboard...it just doesn't happen. And what's most frustrating is how I am constantly thinking...