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Maybe today will be the best day of my life but somehow I don’t fucking think so. Have to move. Have to move to a new place I now hate and I just want to fucking relax. Even typing this is a distraction from what I should be doing. The activity I like least in the entire world. Which will be my entire day. And my tomorrow. And my tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. While working. While waiting–while having to follow up on my cover art, my copy edits– OK. I accept that God wants me to be miserable. He wants me to not finish the book. Not sell it. Whatever I want, is what God does not want. God does not want my ass to not hurt. God does not want my eye not to rot. My penis to not fall off. God wants my landlady, who is evil, to have money and happiness, while I languish in obscurity. God wants me to move. Continue reading
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