Saturday, October 13, 2007


While Lily Strange is an alter ego, she isn't the product of dissociative identity disorder, she is a conscious choice, a defense for my too sensitive "real" self to use as a shield. However, this only goes so far and fucking bipolar disorder sometimes wins. Let me explain something. While this shitty disease causes emotions to be magnified, not all of my emotions are manufactured by my crappy ass hyperactive limbic system. But many a time, a situational emotion is magnified.
I just spent $22 to send books to 3 people who requested them for the purpose of reviewing them. A couple of things. I never, ever, ever read reviews of my work. I could get nine good reviews and the tenth one, which was bad, would stick with me and have me in a shit mood for three months. This doesn't just happen to me, the fucked up in the head chick though. It happens to people like Stephen King too. King says that he quit reading reviews of his books when his wife semi-jokingly threatened to divorce him because he'd be in a foul mood for weeks after reading a bad one. I really don't need to put my long-suffering family through a protracted period of shit mood.
Still, I have to respond to requests for the book to be reviewed because there's not such thing as bad publicity. The damn reviews garner sales. At least they better. I'm beyond broke and I have to somehow pull the money out of my ass to purchase more copies. An author gets a select number of copies when they publish. Above and beyond that we have to buy 'em too. Yeah, I get them wholesale, but that still ain't cheap, especially since I have to order a minimum of 10.
I'm having one of those times when I hate myself for not being a normal person who actually wants to be in some nice profession like nursing. I've tried to change. I've tried to work 9-5. I've tried to deny that the only thing that I'm actually adept at is writing.
Right now the thought of joining my co-author seems like a good one. And despite the fact that he could easily stomp a mudhole in my undead ass once I got over there I don't really even care. It boils down to not wanting my son to find me kacked and the fact that if he's going to succeed in his final year of high school he doesn't need the fact that his shithead bipolar mom killed herself on his head. So I remain--if for no other reason than to piss all the normals off.
I'm definitely in a fuck the world mood. If it wouldn't make things worse I'd get absolutely shitfaced blind stumbling drunk. But that wouldn't change anything either.
I kind of hope I'm never normal. I really wouldn't know what the fuck to do if I was and I'd probably be miserable because I couldn't recognize myself. Guess us nutwads just can't win.
Hope you're doing better than me.