All fucking year I've suffered terrible bad luck. You know it's bad when you win a victory only to have something happen that renders the victory useless. For example, I've been behind on sales all month at work. From Friday to Sunday, I made a shocking amount of sales. That's a victory, right? Except I'm not paid on sales. I'm paid on those sales getting invoiced. So guess how many of my 70+ sales got invoiced yesterday and today? Barely a quarter of them. So I'm still behind at work. My wonderful victory meant nothing.
Here's another example: I had a cage on my foot so I could heal said foot. It worked. The cage came off, my foot was healed. But now a new hole has opened, and it won't heal, so what was the fucking point?
I remember the joy I felt when my first book, Strip, was published. I remember the soul-crushing anguish when it flopped so bad it transcended the very concept. To give you an idea, it sold tens of copies. It didn't even come close to cracking 100. Not even FIFTY. Thankfully it has sold a lot better ever since I rereleased it through Riot Forge.
And now for my favorite example: I survived the nightmare of being forced to leave my childhood home by finding a great place to live in DeKalb. I can barely afford it, but if I just keep making my commission at work, at least I'll survive.
It's time to renew my agreement with the complex, and starting July, just in time for my birthday, my rent is going up a hundred dollars a month.
But hey, my tax return this year is more than four grand, so that shouldn't be too much of a problem, right? Except today I got news that after waiting months for them to do the math to ensure I'm telling the truth on my 1040, they need yet another fucking three months to get that done. How likely am I to get that money by July?
I've been treading water since January, and all it has done is exhaust me. It has frayed my goddam nerves. I am full of stark blinding rage all the time. Frustration? No, that left a while ago. The door did, indeed, hit him on the ass, for all the good it did.
Ordinarily I have friends that I can hang out with, that I can vent my spleen with. And I do have many friends, but none of them are here in DeKalb. No one is even close. But I do have you. I'm sorry to puke all my angst at you. In fact, you don't even have to read this. Tonight you are Schrodinger's Fuckers. Obviously you are there because I'm venting to you, but I'm pretending you're not so I can just let loose.
[This note will make more sense later, but while rereading this to make sure it made sense, I accidentally thought I'd typed "I'm vomiting on you," so see? I'm laughing.]
In my awful gut-wrenching throes, my mind is starting to make plans to sell all my belongings. Get the important stuff to family, sell the rest of it, and prepare to live on the streets, and there's an ugly treacherous part of me that looks forward to it. I know that bastard is a liar and a cheat, but there is comfort to be found in ceasing to fight. I'm sick of putting all the effort I've got in me into merely treading water. That's not enough. It's worse than failure. At least with failure it'll all finally be fucking over. It will pass, I know, but that's what that piece of shit is saying right now.
There's also another part of me that is flat out insane. Those who saw me in my party days would probably say I was pretty crazy, considering my batshit conduct, but that's tame compared to all the stuff I hold back. Once the fight is over, and I've lost, there will be nothing holding that part of me back. There's comfort in that, too. If I've lost, then I've got nothing left to my life but to find ways to entertain myself, and I've got a great imagination. Without my personal library to soothe me? My idle hands would very much itch.
I'm tired of fighting every waking moment of my wretched life. I want to relax. I want nothing more than to REST. I'm not looking for riches beyond comprehension. If you gave me a Ferrari, I'd give it away to someone else. I stopped wearing watches, so a Rolex wouldn't impress me. OK, how about something not material, like sex? That's not a thing I overly concern myself with. If it comes my way, I enjoy it, but it's not all that important to me, so I don't even seek that kind of wealth. All I want is for life to stop it's constant assault on my senses. Let me have at least a week where I can get up out of the water and rest on a boat instead.
Thank you for listening. I'm not seeking advice or comfort, so you don't have to reach out. I needed to get this out of me in the hopes that writing about it will exorcise the horror. The feeling is familiar. I know it will pass. I'm trying to *force* it to pass with this.
I can still laugh. Here's proof of that, and also proof of something I would ordinarily hold back. Earlier in the process of writing this, I paused to think if there's anything in my sewer of a brain that I wouldn't talk about in these things. It reminded me of one of the GFs of old that I scratched. One of the ones I'd deleted and written about doing that instead. It was about the annoyance of getting boners at work. Like, if I'm on break reading an unexpected erotic scene in a book, for example. I'd gone into great detail before realizing, what the fuck? No one is going to want to read about this. This is . . . also, what if someone I work with stumbled upon this? How fucked up would that be?
And that made me laugh. So I figured, what the hell. I'm still me. Don't worry. Go back and reread that bracketed sentence again.
All the same, I can't believe I survived the horrors of leaving Elmhurst only to be confronted with this neverending stream of bullshit. And no, I can't find somewhere else to live. I was making a bunch of sacrifices in moving to Joliet, but I figured I'd use my time there to build my credit back up. But things went south instead, and that credit score is completely in the toilet as a result. There's literally nothing I can do about that, so I'm sure no landlord would ever have me.
My life is . . . fun.
I'll try to have something cheerful (or at least not completely full of despair) for you tomorrow night.
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