I’m really fond of trying to get stuff done. I’m different to other people, I’ve figured it out. I have the itch and it really needs to be scratched. It’s hard to be creative and be a normal person. Sometimes I just want to go feral and hide in the woods for a couple of years. That kind of thing just isn’t practical- so I put it down in a story or a song. What next? I might go to Hollywood and get involved in movies or something. Cocaine and bimbo’s. Glorious.
I’ve started whittling down a big collection of short stories, I’m making slow progress- doing little drawings and furiously re-writing stuff. It’s looking good so far. I would read the book anyhow, and at the moment that’s all that matters.
This weekend has been utter bollocks. Mainly due to the continuing state of my spouse. She’s hopeless, and it just keeps getting worse. I aim for the future, but I’m thinking a lot of dark, bad thoughts. Just thinking of how things will work out eventually. I’m getting tired, I think I should apply for some time off. At times I feel like I’m a carer, and things are getting terminal. I feel like a two dimensional Vonnegut character- exclaiming- “Why do I have to do all the Nigger work?”.
Life indeed is a struggle. It just keeps getting worse.