So.
Got a bit of a…punch in the face, followed up by a rusty dull knife stabbed with a slow precise cruelty into my still-beating heart. It concerns writing. And being an author and…uh huh. I won’t get specific. Because I am determined to be a happy little butterfly who delights my three readers with butterfly-like insouciance.
As downer sorts get treated like dog shit. Or ignored so thoroughly they bleed in public and nobody notices.
Smile, god-fucking-dammit!!–the world demands.
I have to wait and see. That’s all this is. I have to be patient and calm, neither of which a hateful God or a loving Reptilian Overlord imbued me with. I should look at this setback as some sort of life lesson, amen. It’s all going to turn out great and then we can all hold hands and skip! Sarcasm is my best friend. My only friend, at times.
So, I don’t wish to sit there like a lump during Thanksgiving this Thursday. And just nod along when those around me take glee in the absolute misfortune and suffering of others. As they will. Do they think all the harmful and foul things being done…won’t touch their lives? I think they actually do think that. Sighs forthcoming. I don’t want to explain that I’m not John Grisham or JK Rowling, that it takes a long time to develop an audience for your body of work…that lightning doesn’t hit just because you wrote a…ugh. Fuck. I just can’t dredge up my thick rhino skin armor right now. I just fucking can’t do it.
Forgive me. This is a vague rambling ode to nonsense and self-pity and bitterness that yet again I have made the worst decisions possible and expected better outcomes.
ANN WUEHLER 