#362

Fuck, good people. Fuck me up. Saturday morning went and got the freshest corona jab plus my first flu shot since I was a teenager, and I was laid low, low out there. The weekend was a corporeally drained, cerebrally fogged mess. I would think I was ok mentally, and then I would attempt to communicate through any medium with another person, and that illusion would shatter. Got my first hard-on since the day of the jab today, though, which is good despite an admittedly listless performance. Corona jabs will eventually render me entirely impotent, I expect. So it goes. Final analysis, I'll take breathing over erections. I did the flu because my aging body has been seeming to reccommend it, particularly after Thanksgiving, as I mentioned. 

Then Monday the current and hopefully final semester of my effing life kicked off, which bore with it tasks, which took up all of my juice in my weakened condition.

Doing it all over the computer this time, the distance learning I was so unwilling to interface with a year ago. But that was a different man entirely, eh, dear reader?

*

For the sake of my mental health and the health of my burgeoning novel, I will make it a point to post regularly. The first daily blast of energy must go towards written assignments, then my own projects till the well runs good and dry, and then reading, of which I have enough to keep me happy. I shall try to be as assiduous and efficient as possible with my academic obligations, so that I might devote as many hours and as much power to what is most vital.

Stated. Intended aloud. Nine blessings. Amen.

*

Though my financial straits are approaching uncomfotable margins, I am experiencing a dread paralysis when it comes to finding employment. The plain fact is I'm not on a big tip of leaving my house much for business reasons. What I want is to work exactly where I'm standing, doing exactly what I'm doing. 

Another intention: I am going to borrow money if I have to, but this is the year I take getting published seriously. I think I've offset a sufficient amount of the guilt I feel about having money with the amount of shit I've had to do in the service industry and beyond in order to barely get the fuck by and never have been able to save a cent. I might as well be in the same condition, but just scrambling to get published, its own shitty job; more time to write. And if things go well? Well, that maybe fucks me up worse, but there comes a time when a dude has to just get over how fucking disgusting cocksucking motherfucking money is and let himself have some in exchange for his privacy and his ability to just tinker by himself unnoticed by all, for the privilege of not having to wear editors down because I'm so precious that once something is done to my satisfaction, to entertain editorial advice is tantamount to ripping a piece of my own skin off with my fingernails. In my defense, except for in the blog, I take a million careful fucking years to finish anything, so by the time someone sees something it is word-fucking-perfect, I unequivocally and with extreme conviction feel I have earned the right to not care what any living soul thinks would read better. It stands there to be read as written, by me, for a host of extremely cogent reasons. All I require is proofreaders for those misspellings that embed themselves in a document sometimes, having become invisible to the author's brain.

Ok. I don't even know where all that really came from. I guess I'm just outlining how ill-suited I am to be a professional writer, uncovering the deep pools of hubris that sabotage me so. But I'm a professional in multiple fields, dammit! I can will myself to do this. I can do this. Please let me be able to do this. Humility NOW

HUMILITY NOW

*

Jesus, man. Time to lie down for a little while. My health is clearly not quite back up to the high water mark.

--JL