Man I hate this

I used to think writing was the one thing that I could never be paid not to do.

What a joke.

I would be quite content being paid even 50K a year to never write again.

There ain’t nothin’ to say to nobody, nohow.

Sometimes writing can find something inside but most of the time your thoughts are flashes of light off a tinfoil brain.

Words are tedious but it’s all we have that’s cheap and easy, except they’re neither.

What I’ve learned is the cure for how shitty you’re feeling now is making it another 5 years. You look back–provided you made it through OK–and realize everything you felt someone already felt before and it was nothing special. You think, ‘Okay at twenty everyone is, confused, awkward, vulgar, punished by biology, ignorant of the wider plot and lacking societal importance and gravitas. At 30 you’re supposed to be at the pinnacle of youth and health, some make it and some don’t. At 40 you’re probably supposed to have children half your age; unless you have the trappings of wealth or continuing good (enough) looks society is through with you.

At 50 they really leave you alone. You can die undisturbed.

I’ve got 5 novels and a dozen stories up on blocks. Seeing the totality of these labors I feel like a dipshit trying to drain an ocean with a shot glass.

There are plenty of souls with worse fates than mine but fuck them. I envy those with better fates: comfortable money, visible abs, a gift of gab rather than dick jokes.

You can beg God to alleviate your pain or wash away your sins but if you ask Him to kill your procrastination, He procrastinates.

Now I gotta shit, shower, climb into bed and watch youtube vids until the hammer of sleep drops. After fancifully complaining I feel slightly better. NSA computers and the tech giants read all of our websites. You’re never alone.