Can't sleep, have been made sad.
So many things keep going wrong and I wonder why I even bother anymore. If I could get a 'real' job I would. If I thought I could keep a job I'd work harder to get one. If I weren't so adverse to her pity I'd clean my mother's house for money.
But I can't work, also it's been ten years since I had a job with a paycheck I no longer have a work history, and I won't clean the house of the woman who never gave an iota of fucks that I spent my entire childhood cleaning our apartments and cooking her food for pay that doesn't cover a single bill, or groceries. Barely even the gas to get there.
I just want to write but what I write and how I write it isn't popular, isn't something the average person enjoys, and I've had people stop reading Weald and Wen (and tell me for some reason) midway through the Prologue because the 'words are too hard and the prose is too dense'. They put it down and never picked it back up because it was hard to read. Is that their fault or mine? I have no idea. It's not hard for me, but I wrote it so...bah.
Maybe I'm not career author material. Maybe I'm writer as a hobby while I deliver groceries and have a panic attack every five seconds about forgetting something or getting lost or hitting the wrong button or did I take a picture I was supposed to take a picture...material.
No wonder Edgar Allan Poe's my favorite author, he couldn't get anyone to give a shit about his words when he was alive either.
I hope my death is as mysterious and fascinating and that people remember me as more than I was.
