Thing is? No one seems to want to hire me. I'm starting to--eh, who'm I kidding--I'm CONTINUING to truly freak out about the job situation.
And the thing is: when I paint? That feels like what I SHOULD be doing. But of course, one can't make a living at that unless one is a) uber-talented (and I know at least of few of you will try to tell me I am, but let's be objective: I just have a little skill, so far); b) able to key into some universal unconsious and/or pop culture thing, and market the POO out of it; or c) is "important" in talent and vision and voice/point of view.
I don't got NONE of that, not yet at least.
The other thing I feel like I should be doing/could do and be truly happy, is write. But the same lack-ofs as above apply ten-fold with my writing.
Let's face it: I'm often just a glorified whiner. And there's nothing wrong with that (shup, is NOT) when one is "just" blogging, but when I try to really write a story (and please trust, there are TONS in here (points to head)), I self-censor the LIFE out of it, and end up with peurile (sp--blame drugs) scribblings that would shame the most sentimental and self-centered teenage girl (which is kinda what I am, on the inside, most times).
I've just always felt that there are great things inside me, but I can't seem to get them out. I censor and run myself down too much. But still that conviction--however deluded it might be--exists.
I keep thinking that maybe, just maybe, all the excrement I've been struggling to swim through lately (and wow, that's quite a disgusting image, huh?) has some purpose.
I feel I've been living on the edge of reality for so long, and I'm also pretty sure I'm not "of" the world--or at least "of" society in general, that, well...there HAS to be something there; something I'm meant to tap into and relay, and make some kind of positive difference in the world.
Does that make any sense?
Probably not: I broke into the vicodins for my back a little bit ago (only took ONE, promise), and though it's not allowing me to sleep, it IS allowing me to ramble eloquently.
Or if not eloquently, then at least copiously.
ANYway, believe it or slurp it, the reason I started writing this blog was because I caught a little bit of the Tom Cruise butt-fu.ck on Oprah (sound down, thankfully, cuz Iron Man is playing on the puter, and WHAT a great flick but that's another story) and I really wanted to rant and rave and present empiracle (sp, probably) evidence of why Oprah SUCKS big hairy BALLS in the BAD way, but somehow I got sidetracked.
That seems to happen a lot.
And thus (she typed for the umpteenth time) I end.
Tags: Life Pain Musings Drugs WOE
