Yes, the angst continues. I feel like a 15 year old. But then again, I'm not sure I put this much effort into angsting back then. Maybe it's just my time.
I don't know what to do with myself. Come on, sing it. I JUST DON'T KNOOOOW WHAT TO DOOO WITH MYSELF. I want to be a writer. But I feel, deep down, and the mysterious "they" tell me that working full time and trying to be a writer at the same time is impossible.
I'm in Paris, paying rent, and currently flipping burgers part-time for a bit of cash. I hate it. Yes, that makes me a prima donna but I just don't want to do it. I'm going to hold out until I get myself a social security number, then allow my lovely little English pub to take my job and shove it. This hurts my ego, as I thought I could handle most things, but it's too boring, and too damaging to my delicate frame!
So, I'm in the position of desperately seeking a full time I.T. desk job. Which I had turned my back on in OZ! Just so I can stay here as long as possible.
But if I do that, the writing will suffer. And being a writer was/is the plan. It IS the plan. The pessimist in me (which fills roughly 87% of the space) can't see this future ever happening, but for once I want to get to the failure without quitting first. I want to write this damn novel, write online articles, write on this blog and all that and commit to it.
Can't do that when I have to pay rent. Hmmmm. Time to go for a walk and think things through.
Back in a bit.
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