Haven't had much time for dear Diaryland, I fear, although I have been going through my reading list from time to time. (If you're looking for it, I moved it to the archives a couple of minutes ago. The entry pages were so crowded and the archives comparatively bare, so I decided to balance them out some.)
Don't have much to say, so I'll post something I wrote on the 7th. I meant to post it here earlier but got sidetracked, shock of shocks. Me, sidetracked? Well, yeah. Anyway, the previously-written and newly posted stuff:
I don't know what the hell I'm thinking lately. Sure, I'll write a 50,000 word novel this November! Sure, I'll join your anime-themed RPG. And your, no, not you, the other guy's fantasy RPG. Yes, that one. And the spirituallly-based one too! I can do it all.
Except that in a matter of weeks I'm going to be crying underneath the kitchen table or inside a closed cupboard in order to hide from everything that grows big and scary inside my head. Hell, I can't even work up the balls to write a real diary entry. I've been AWOL from it for nearly a month.
God, what am I thinking? I'm not able to do this. I twitch in fear when I have to fuel my car, and I think I can write? Bah. Even if I were miraculously able to complete the Nanowrimo word goal AND finish the story (or hell, just wrap up what I dare to call a "plot"), so what? Nobody will publish the tripe. I'll have spent a month producing a massive display of uselessness.
What am I supposed to do? I had a "random" encounter the other day that suggests, to me, that Somebody wants me to find a career. Not a job. A cafuckingreer.
Alright. Gimme a moment to angst.
Why can't I be okay? Who decided that it was okay for me to never be able to measure up to people whose brains were put together correctly? How come I can get better and better with time, making grand strides from my past, and yet the further from awful I get, the further I am from where I want to be? Other people know what they want to do in life and they can work towards it. Why can't I do that? I want to be a writer. I don't really want to be rich and famous; it actually sounds burdensome. I'd just like to be able to support myself and my family by writing the stuff I love. That's so much to ask, I know, but I'm not good for much else. I have too much imagination and silliness to settle down to a proper desk job.
At least it's not all bad. I had a queer revelation sometime in the past week. The reason my daddy doesn't love me as much as I love him has nothing to do with me not being worthy. It's just not in him to love that strongly. Maybe it will be someday, but until then, he loves me as much as he is able to love, and I still love me. I hope someday we can try to build a relationship from that base, but even if we can't, at least it has finally sunk into my head that it's not my fault. He loves me. If anything, I might love him more than I should.
Mom is bugging me to get a job. You know, because that worked so well the last five times she asked. Remember the time I ran out on my second day of work? No? I didn't like to bring it up then, and it's not all that much better now. Maybe she's asking me to seek employment because I'm so responsible about paying rent (a month and a week behind!) or the utilities (hey, I noticed the mail hadn't gone out within a month, after the second or third duplicate bill arrived!)
Heh. I know damn well why she wants me working. She's unemployed right now. Of course, it's okay when she does it, because she's on unemployment insurance of some kind. She's also using her time without work to clean the house, which means she shoves things from the cupboards into my arms, tells me to put them down and reach the stuff in the back, and then she tells me how to put everything back in the same damn cupboard. Constructive, no? *curses*
I love how she's allowing herself to take money to remain unemployed because she wants to clean, but I'm supposed to run out and seek minimum wage despite my resurfacing anxiety disorder.
Happy stuff! Surely there's happy stuff. I've been making ASCII candy corns and stuffing them in various places online. Like so!
(Cc›
They look best on dark backgrounds. On pure white, the tip of the corn doesn't show.
(Cc›
Candy corn RULES!
(Cc› (Cc›
Hee. Okay, I'll try to be good. I've had some fun writing Jaina lately at Proelium. I'd forgotten how protective she is of anyone who's so much as smiled warmly at her. Yikes. She found someone she knew wounded on the floor and went into scary mode. Writing that revived something that had lain dormant for far too long.
I need to get Jaina into a serious storyline, STAT. She's fun to write idly and humorously, but she is a grand angst-puppy when lonely and a blaze of anger when she can't protect those she likes. I've let that part of her fade for aeons, but it's not gone. I've found it again.
Eek, I'm rhapsodising about my roleplay character! Help me! I'm turning into one of those people who goes on and on about characters. I do love Jaina and her cronies, but I figure more prominently in my life than they do, by just a hair. Heh.