Sorry for the vulgar title, but it's early morning on a Saturday, I'm drunk on a glass of 4 dollar wine that is turning my spit purple, and I feel a need to vent, now. Shit, I feel the need for a typographic enema (is that an appropriate adjective?).
My second to last post is about a new story, and how I did it so fast. Well, I haven't done shit since writing that story, just typed it up, edited it one and a half times, (I went over the first half twice, having made an aborted edit) and printed it out just today. That's fucking it.
Oh, and I wrote a page of a third draft of some thing that I am keeping on the back burner, and only thought to revisit because it was evoked by Pattern Recognition, the latest Gibson novel I have read (It's very good, maybe his best; I liked it better than Spook Country, I think, though I only listened to that on Audiobook. I think Gibson is at his best when using a single focalized character. His ensemble pieces aren't as hooking).
Since then, I have gotten bogged down in a laborious job search, characterized more my procrastination than actual searching, during which I tried to get a job as an insurance salesman, succeeded, then decided I didn't want to do it. That makes two jobs that I have gotten and turned down, no jobs that I have actually gotten. Meanwhile, I failed somehow to make it through the initial interview stage for a online application at Best Buy, thought that might have been a computer fuckup, maybe, on my part, and the application didn't go through. And I haven't gotten any callbacks on the shitjobs I applied for last Friday.
In short, I have been feeling depressed, useless, and lazy for the last 20 days or so. I have gotten nothing done. My jobsearch has gone from a lazy procrastination to a selfhating freakout. I have no interest in getting a job. I have no interest in getting fucked by the system, or fucking others with the system. The entire American economy has, for a long time, felt like a series of commutations of exploiting and being exploited, and I don't want anything to do with any of it. I am unhappy, feel useless, uninspired, frightened, and angry. I hate this entire fucking economy and want nothing to do with it, feel both uninspired and disinterested in trying to have anything to do with it, guilty, and wanting to, if anything, be exploited by it, just so as not to be past of the monster, and horribly depressed and frightened and angry that, in twenty days of not getting a job, I have managed to do fuck all in terms of writing.
Now, I am listening to Sinead O'Connor, enjoying feeling properly drunk for the first time in ages. It's good, I think, to get drunk every so often. Let the demons out to fly and around and access the decorating, give it their honest opinion, break anything that doesn't seem to be doing much good.
My friends visited last weekend. Sunday night Boyle and Craig inexplicably, in an act of spur-of-the-moment initiative, drove all the way out to Iowa City, harassed me, and took me out for breakfast at eleven at night, then drove back. Boyle now has a shit-paying job with possibility for advancement. Craig is dating the Hot Polish Chick at Follett. All they did was harass me, probably because I am in an pitiable shit state, and such was obvious. I haven't gotten a job in nearly three fucking months. They questioned why I moved out here. Like most point blank questions, I stuttered and gave answers that felt like fake justifications.
I feel like my entire life has been a waste. I have no idea why I am doing anything that I am doing. I feel that every day I am sinking deeper and deeper into depression and melancholy. I feel alone and frightened. The entire world, all of my surroundings, feel like a foreign country, transplanted to an alien world with odd, idiosyncratic customs. I want out. I don't like it here. I keep waiting for it all to make sense and it never does, just feels more and more alien. Why can't I get on something that feels like that right track. Is it me? It is the rest? Do I even want to?
I don't want to sell insurance. I don't want to be here. I don't want to fake being a person. I just want to be a fucking writer.
So why can't I even manage that?