Alright, so today I feel a bit less desperate and depressed. I'm sick with a nasty but run-of-the-mill common cold, so that may have lent a little to my being so down in the shitter last night. I didn't do much packing or cleaning today, I had planned to do both, but FUNK DAT. I'm recovering, bitches.
My family is about to move. I'm anxious and excited half of the time, then I find myself uneasy and worried. It's about half the size of the townhouse we're in now. Which is fine, we've gotten rid of a shit load of stuff we don't need. It's not an issue of where our stuff will go. It's going to be the four of us crammed into a smaller area, getting into each other's faces. What I'm hoping is that the kids will want to play outside more. The yard and decks on this house are fucking amazing.
I'm taking more time off from school, too, and I worry that my family will assume I've given up. This time it will be a year, only because what with all the house hunting related whatnot, I stupidly missed that the college needed some extra paperwork for my financial aid. I thought I had everything done, FAFSA was completed and all, but, whatever. The deadline has passed. Maybe this extra time is something I need, though. I'll be unpacking and getting used to a new house, getting used to BOTH kids being in school this year (finally), and hopefully I can find a new job. I'll pick back up with school and I will slay it into the mother fucking ground, dammit. I will have my Bachelors. Someday.
I've gotten the notion into my head again that it might not be too late for me to be a writer. I mean, writing is the thing in this life that I enjoy most. Why can't I do that for a living? Maybe I'm no good at it. I've thought about that. I really haven't gotten feedback from anyone who isn't friends or family, and they will say it's good even if it's shit. Because they love me. Or they're afraid of hurting my feelings. And I totally get that, I have a hard time critiquing anything done by someone I care about. But also, I'm a bit conflicted about trying to "sell" my writing. I write because I can't not. It's like pooping. I ingest so much stimuli during the day and need to excrete it periodically in the form of words. If I don't write, it is a form of constipation. But really, who would pay to see this shit? Pun Fucking Intended.