I haven’t liked anything I’ve written lately. Even just in terms of here (blog) (barf sound).

I’ll be honest—I’ve got to rebuild quite a bit. And with the end of the decade I’m guessing that will be a trend that I will be lumped into. But I think not caring is going to be a big part of the build.

I was fired from a job I really really fucking cared about. And it was the day after a big party I helped them to throw. It was over text message. And I had no chance.

                        Another lesson learned…the motherfucking hard way. I’ve got to let it go or it will bury me.

If I’m the only childfree person in my life…so be it. Be happy for my freedom, not sad because I’m not part of a group. A ruin-your-life group.

I will be 35 soon and I have to start over with jobs. Looking for one, having one, deciding if I should have one.

Am I a better fit for volunteer work?

Guilt…is probably my number one enemy. So how do I fix that motherfucker? Damn that’s a monster. And whatever I do that I think will fix it has never worked. Fuck. Shit.

Nature—becoming one with nature is a goal of mine. I think that’s where peace is, I’m pretty sure.

Learn not to judge so quickly. I want to be okay with everyone. Even…Christians…that fucking hurts to type. People from the south. Christian people from the south.

Most importantly, I need to write. If I want my life to add up to anything I care about, then I have to use words. If my existence is to create with words, why do I run away from it? I just push it away because I don’t want to be a failure. It’s easy to see so many people succeed in this field but it’s because they did something about it. No stranger came up to them and said hey, you aren’t by chance a writer? Can I have your stuff to publish right away?

And maybe…just maybe…let go of that dream. I don’t think I’m going to be a professor of literature anywhere. And yeah maybe that’s not all my fault and a lot is out of my hands. But if I let it go, I could make room for something else.

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