Aw F*ck It. Who Reads This Sh!t Anyway?

Today I actually did a Google search on “how to survive as a starving artist.” When I got to work this morning I was so distraught about being there, so upset that I had to spend another day of my life working at something I’m not truly passionate about, that I was trying to figure out ways to survive without an income. It’s become clearer and clearer to me that I will not be truly happy until the time comes when I can write full-time and not worry about where my income is coming from.

That time will probably never arrive, so I suppose it’s time I got used to being unhappy and just stopped being so damned unhappy about being unhappy. If I could just accept the fact that I’m going to be unhappy then maybe I could be happy. Y’know?

Honestly, there are so many things I want to be doing with my life right now and none of them involve working 40 hours a week for someone else. I have to work the nine-to-five because there are certain things in life I have grown accustomed to and because I don’t want to live in a fucking shack, but I do wander if I could survive living in a cardboard box somewhere.

I wish I could write an intelligent rant about how little our society values its artists but I’m not intelligent enough to even pretend to be intelligent.

Nobody really understands why I’m unhappy. Try as I might, I have never been able to fully explain my melancholia. I don’t know why I agonize over this so much, but I do. I wish I could just accept defeat, but I can’t.

I am, at once, both an eternal pessimist and an eternal optimist. For, however bleak my outlook may seem, there is always a part of me that still believes my dream of doing what I love might one day be feasible.