So you know how every 4 weeks or so I get all whiny and/or depressed, but then I say, “well, I know that’s just the PMS talking”? Well hell, why shouldn’t it get to talk?
I am never going to find a job and/or make it as a freelance writer and the gigs that I do have are going to dry up and go away and the woman who is “on the fence” about my editing skills is going to fall on the wrong side of the fence (at which point I sincerely hope at least one of the fenceposts lodges firmly up her ass) and we’re not even going to be able to rent another house because I have no verifiable income (“freelancer” being one step below “bankruptcy” on the list of desirable items on any sort of application) and we’ll be stuck here forever and it doesn’t matter because I don’t know where I want to live and I’m going to be fat forever.
OK. Enough of that.