Incredibly hard

 I find it incredibly hard to justify working for eight hours out of my day just to come home, shower, eat, relax, and do it again when all I really want to do is write. I am furious that I have to work and there is no part of me that wants a career in anything BUT writing. I do not want to sell cars. I do not want to peddle insurance. I do not want to work in a factory or on an assembly line or behind an espresso machine. I want to sit at my computer and make shit up. Cool shit, dope shit, incredible shit, for hours on end. 

And you know what? I still can, but I'm so mad at the idea that I have to spend a third of my life at some fuck factory waiting for the weekend. There is no point to this existence of mine other than to write. Hell is real, I have been there, it is in my office facing the Local Drugstore. It is in an office, in every office across the Americas, next to you, inside you, near you. Always creeping up faster and faster until it swallows you whole. Right now is the moment where my grit is tested. My gall is mustered. Every test that's been thrown at me has to be taken. There is no more procrastination, only destination. Where am I going from here, I wonder?

Far. I'm going far. Farther than any other writer I know, farther than any creative I know, farther than any person I know. Big leauges; maybe not financially, maybe not with fame, but the big leagues of I Had A Dream And I Did It. 

No more hocus-pocus-try-to-focus on Bullshit courses and Fuckfest antics. No conferences, no overtime, no career. What good is a career to me if it takes all my creative energy? I'm relaxed, I'm mute, I'm on autopilot. I'm not saving lives, just my own. There is no use in complaining further because I believe I've sorted out my issues via blogger. Tomorrow I guess we'll see. 

Good night

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