Like Stella, I got my groove back.

Well, sort of.

I took a look at the last draft of the fourth book in my series and realized I’m not a total piece of shit writer. And that was very encouraging after last week which, can we all collectively agree, kind of sucked?

I wrote a really emo post about how unhappy I was (whilst sipping my fireball and diet coke and eating frosting out of a jar), and then decided not to post because I wanted to retain the little bit of dignity I still had. I’m still between jobs because apparently, I’m un-hireable, except for evil corporations like insurance and sales and I’d rather continue being broke ass poor than sell my soul to get screamed out about things that I don’t understand myself. So it’s been weird. And depressing. And kind of unhealthy which is unfortunate since I don’t have money to buy bigger clothes. BUT I have been rereading my last draft and I realized I’m not so terrible. I’m in no way great, but at least I’m not as retarded as I had myself thinking last week when it was pointed out to me—on more than one occasion—that I misfiled. MISFILED.  (I’m not really working, but I’m helping out around Batman’s parents company to earn a few extra dollars since I’ve grown quite fond of eating during these past thirty years.)

I think the universe was on its period because EVERYTHING was bumming me out. (Not the only person who felt this by the way). I couldn’t get a positive thought in about myself which is really dangerous for artists who, as a group, are known to be quite drastic during dark times. Fear not, both my ears are still securely fastened to the sides of my head, but I hail from a family of artists (couple generations back) that decided making an exit was easier than staying to fight. I would never do anything like that. I don’t think. But when you get in that mindset and you’re like I’M THE BIGGEST FUCKING FAILURE EVER IN EXISTENCE and someone points out that P comes after O in the alphabet, you seriously consider your merit and your contribution to the world.

I know P comes after O. I may have to sing the alphabet to remember, but I understand this. I also understand that maybe I should’ve gotten myself an actual skill like carpentry or understanding computers or learning how to control a room full of children, but I didn’t. I majored in Creative Writing because there was nothing else I wanted to do. I gave no thought to supporting myself because that was something adults did and I will inherently be about sixteen. Or maybe ten, because I still retain that childlike innocence (ignorance) that one day I’ll be able to write full time because that’s what I want more than anything. More than a new laptop that doesn’t crap out on me every five minutes. More than the castle-mansion Batman and I design on a daily basis while skimming pintrest and watching House Hunters. More than a magical wedding in the Artis Zoo in Amsterdam which, by the way, you need to visit. Because it’s fucking unreal.

I’d be willing to be broke ass poor for the rest of my life if it meant I’d be able to barely survive on writing because…

…because that’s all there is. To me. For an occupation. For a passion. For a way to spend my life. And maybe *just maybe* that’s possible. Because my last draft isn’t this garbage piece of shit story. It’s actually kind of… awesome. And I can’t wait to keep writing it. So that’s what I’m going to do.

So fare thee well, good people of Planet Earth. Things may suck at times, yes, but they’re only temporary.

Just Remember: Don’t get fooled by the bad days. You’re better than that.