Systemic Misery

I kind of feel like crying tonight.

I’ve been wrestling with this fucking Jack White video essay script, and I’m fairly confident that it fucking sucks. It doesn’t make for a very compelling essay, and it doesn’t sound like a very compelling video. Moreover, I have no experience editing or doing voiceover for videos. So if I can’t properly produce on part of the project and have no experience creating the other part, what the fuck am I even doing?

I might as well play fucking Runescape instead of this shit instead. At least I can click on trees properly. And have a good ‘ol time playing games. And making mediocre food.

Is this one of those doldrum periods where I feel like everything I do sucks that I’ve been told artists go through? God, I’m such a fucking conceited cunt. “Artists.” Shut the fuck up. I mean, I guess “artists” are at a higher risk of suffering from depression, which is a lot like this feels right now. But, I mean, really. I tried to read my little fucking ‘script’ aloud to Sofia tonight and realized how shitty it all is. It’s not what I want to make, it’s not what I want to say, it’s not how I wanted it to sound. It’s bland, it’s cookie-cutter, and it’s nothing special. It’s not impactful in the way that I want it to be, and I honestly don’t think that I’ll be able to make it work that way.

In other news, I my latest submission to Literotica is getting shittier reviews than the piece that got posted in the “wrong section” and inevitably got bad reviews for a while as a result.

I have a commission request, but it’s for some bizarre bullshit that I don’t even want to post. And I have no PayPal to collect the info without disclosing who is behind the “LustyPenny” character.

I have a job interview tomorrow at EIGHT IN THE FUCKING MORNING. And it’s 1:40 AM right now. I’m sitting here bitching and playing Runescape – in fact, hang on, ‘gotta click on shit that doesn’t matter.

Alright. Back.

I don’t want the job. I want the fifty grand a year. I don’t want the time sink in shit I’ll quickly hate. I want the fifty grand a year. I don’t want my happiness to end – this happiness that’s gushing out of me onto this keyboard right now. That’s what it feels like. Right now I’m surviving. My savings are dwindling. My plan to pay off my credit cards is going south quickly. Eventually I’ll be out of runway and out of unemployment benefits, then I’ll be completely fucked.

Maybe getting a job serving would be fun.

I really hate feeling like this. I do. I can’t stand it. I can’t honestly look at myself in the mirror right now and tell myself that I’ll ever amount to anything. I’ll look at myself and tell him that he should’ve gone to college. He should’ve not fucked up his job at VOI. He should’ve not put that SERVPro job on the line – even though it might still be on the table and are waiting for me to call on Wednesday. Though getting it or not getting it seems like it’ll make me equally unhappy. I can’t look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that I’m a decent writer. Or even one that has some kind of unique perspective that makes my writing any good. Or fun. Or interesting. Or even brings that “guilty pleasure” element to the party.

All I can fucking do is write these stupid journals where I either outpour happiness or bleed sadness all over the fucking page. They’re the most writing I ever even fucking do.

If I never go to bed, will I never have to go to that interview?

If I oversleep it, will unemployment find out and kill my benefits?

They’re just shooting any old candidate towards this shitty ass workplace, anyway. The staffing agency woman basically admitted that to me on the phone. All of the warning signs to this being an awful place to work are flashing in my face. They’re blinding me. I couldn’t even hold down a job at a decent work environment like VOI, even if I was mismanaged quite a bit. How fucking miserable would I be at a workplace that not only is a source of shitty, miserable, unsatisfying work in my life, but it’s also a shitty, miserable place to work? Making fifty grand a year would somewhat offset that, which is the only reason I feel like I need to give this interview my all.

Tell you what, though. This is not exactly the mentality that I wanted to have going into this interview tomorrow.

Here I am, staying up until late in the night again, and this time it’s much less of an ideal time to be doing so. In 6 hours, I should be standing in the lobby of that company awaiting the person to come interview me. But, I guess, in an hour or so after that, I’ll be able to go back to living my life. Bringing myself to run. Maybe make some cast iron skillet pizza. Maybe get upset and frustrated trying to work on this Jack White bullshit some more. Maybe write some more porn. Spend time with Sofia, if she’ll have me.

Therein lies the source of my problem, I think. I instantly started feeling better once I pushed my foresight out past this interview tomorrow morning. Once I was mentally past that hindrance, my spirits felt lifted – naturally, I’m aware of this now, so it has diminished.

Seems like there are at least two, distinct type of misery in my life:

A misery borne of maldirection (I’m inventing this word, fuck you.)

A misery borne of insecurity

How fucked is it that it seems like one of those two miseries just cancelled the other out? A misery in maldirection is systemic. It’s hard-wired into the direction that my life has taken. A misery from insecurity is transient. It afflicts me like a sickness, but can be abated – and that’s the fucking key, too. It can be abated because the insecurity originates from something inside me that tells me I’m not good enough. I can’t do it. I’m incapable. Right now, that insecurity feels founded. I’m not strong enough, right now, to tell myself that’s not the case – even if it may not be. But at least I’m running into that misery of insecurity because I’m confronting it. I’m giving it voice by exposing myself to it. I’m creating, or at least I’m trying to create.

Meanwhile, that systemic misery is looming over me. It’s tomorrow morning. It’s the end of my unemployment benefits. It’s at the bottom of my bank account.

Maybe that adventure van is just supposed to be a vehicle I use to take everything that matters to me and run away from my problems. Maybe it represents the end of my systemic misery.

I really don’t know.

And I’m scared.

So I think I’m going to cry.



Only crazy people name them.

Sometimes I just sit and stare at the blank, flat, white background to a Google Docs Untitled document. I’ll start to put down some words onto the page, disrupting the canvas, and then quickly backspace them away before the ink sets. What I had written there was uninspired. What I had written was put-on, contrived, and affected. It was the false-start of an idea on flawed pretense. Whenever I’ve ever continued, pushing on past the pain of knowing that what I’m doing is farcical at best, it has always turned out to be a mess. The result is an uninspired heap of words that sort of mingle with one another like a bunch of second-hand acquaintances awkwardly attempting to make conversation at a party.

So, instead, I sit on the blank page. I am comfortable there. At least sitting there, repeating endless cycles of ‘type-type-delete’, makes me feel like I’m “working.” Even using that word, “working,” feels like I’m lying to myself. On the one hand, writing every day and practicing every day is - as far as I understand it, which is not very far I will admit - the pathway to success as a writer. On the other hand, referring to it as “working” implies that there is actual “work” to be done. Maybe if there was, I’d be less inclined to hammer the backspace key. Maybe if there was, I’d be less often guilty of marking down the failure to write day over day. Again, though, even typing that out again just now, and all of the sudden my inner monologue is lashing out, pounding at the confines of my subconscious.

“No!” it shouts, beating it’s hypothetical fists against the wall. “No, of course not, that’s not how it works!” It sounds again. “You’re giving yourself excuses! What, are you going to wait to write for real until someone is paying you to do it? Giving you your ‘work’? How do you propose on getting the work if you don’t practice, genius?”

“Shut up. I know,” I tell the hypothetical little man snarling at the edge of my mind. “You’re a lot more fucking difficult to deal with than Untitled document, you know that?”

Then, completely unable to entertain this hypothetical conversation between myself and the voice in my head embodied by a hypothetical little man, I stop writing about that and reflect for a moment about how this descent into mania has ruined my otherwise pristine Untitled document.

Sometimes I think I’m losing it. At least I didn’t name him. Only crazy people name them.


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