There's a cartoon that's shared often on Tumblr, and I relate to it greatly today.
In my case, I've got anxiety, depression, and malaise all queueing up behind the aches and pains. Along with the usual self-doubt and defeatism that makes my life such a fun, rollercoaster-esque, dizzying, mad whirl 9_9
And in the back of my head, there's this firkin annoying little optimist who insists that I can do the thing because it will be "such fun". Yeah no, you manic loony. I will not be live-streaming my arting when I get the tablet pen sometime next week. I will not be making flash animations with my scribble-sketches with the music from Steam Powered Giraffe as the audio because (a) I know my efforts firkin suck and (b) every time I break my heart trying to do something wonderful, the universe greets it with its usual 'meh'. I'll get like three notes and a takedown notice from YouTube. Fuck you.
And it's getting closer to October. Which means that I am that much closer to acceptance or rejection for Kung Fu Zombies. I already expect the latter, possibly with a stock reply letter, but I know in my heart that I'm going to be firkin devastated because said rejection is about due to happen on my birthday.
Happy birthmas, you firkin suck. Toot toot, muddy fudger.
And I'm bare weeks away from having a friendo come over and visit and... because illness and this emotional horse crap I'm wading through... I haven't had the time or energy to do the things I should be. Or to chase everyone to do the things they should be. And the house has, once again, fallen to shit.
Which is just one more reason for me to hate myself. Wheee -_-
FGSFDS. I wish I could throw it out the window and magically transform into one of those hyperactive whirlwind people who get everything done and do it fantastically well. Part of me secretly hates them. I'm jealous. Completely and totally jealous. If I had just one tenth of their boundless energy, I would have a 100% better life.
I need money to pay nice people to do the stuff that's constantly hard for me. Can't get it as I am because nobody's going to hire a 40+ train wreck who gets exhausted after one firkin shopping trip. My only hope is selling my writing because it's the only thing I'm halfway good at. And judging by the stuff that goes on the shelves, I might just make it. Unless I'm just too damn strange for the mainstream. Which is a possibility.
See what I mean? I'm either going to snap or explode. Fuck!