Retirement: Day one
Today marks the first day of my second retirement. Having already retired from work once after my multiple sclerosis symptoms made manual labor too painful, it isn't so scary deciding to retire the second time around. Plus, it gives me a chance to pursue something else I've always been meaning to learn. The new guitar was a special order, what with me being left handed, so my gift is coming in 2-3 weeks. I've already picked out all my other items; strings, picks, and a strap. The shop had a lot of uber-manly black straps with scowling skulls. But right in the middle of those was a black strap with white skulls wearing pink bows. And that is so me right now. Punk kitten. Guh-er.
And so today was my first day of retirement, but also? Happy birthday to me! 36 and a yeee! 36? Yes, really. And how did I celebrate? With spring cleaning and some gardening. Yeah, after ending my "career" of sitting on my ass all day and writing, I got up and spent the day working around the house. Gardening is a bit of a joke. We have weeds growing in the pots of our dead plants from last year. So I'm watering the weeds to see if I can at least keep them alive during the Summer. If it fails, eh, they were just weeds. I'm also watching over a new basil plant, which hubby almost totally killed. So for now, my schedule offline is: clean house, language studies with hubby, gaming or reading, and online time chatting with friends.
I pulled all my ebooks from Amazon, Mobipocket, and all of the affiliates related to Smashwords. The ATP site will be next on my list to take down, and then the main web site. Dismantling things was actually easier than I would have suspected. Figures that it's easier to pick up my shit and go home than it was to put it up in the first place.
After I get the guitar, lessons with it will take up more of my time. Once I've got enough skill to play songs without cringing at myself, I may get a new digital camera and start posting songs on YouTube. Or maybe I won't. I was telling hubby that one of the great things about a guitar is, completing a flawless performance of Eruption is a reward in itself. One doesn't need a financial or feedback reward to feel good about the achievement. I can play with myself and still feel good about it.
One final note. While today, the feedback from most writers has been fantastic, some people interpreted my message in condensed form as "You don't appreciate my genius." No, doucherocket, my message condensed is "No job is worth $30 a month for 14-18 hour days, 6 days a week." But I made the mistake of mentioning my IQ in the same six page document as I commented about my writing. So any self-centered twat skimming my TL;DR post for talking points is likely to come away with the wrong message. Your bad, and you're still a sour cunt. Fuck you, fuck your catty speshul snowflake friends, and no, I wouldn't have read your lousy fucking books either, bitch.
And finally, some of you thought after I said "Fuck you and there's the door," that I would let you make a speech before you walked out. No. First of all, if you're showing up to bust my chops, but you never heard of me until now, you're fucking stupid. I just retired. I don't give a fuck if my pissing on your desk offended you. But keep talking, asshole. I think I feel a shit coming on.
And if you never read anything of mine until that post, that fuck you screed wasn't even aimed at you. But you'll jump in the path of my silent readers and take that fuck you, so you can puff up and get indignant. How dare I, a crippled stay-at-home author, ask my readers to support me with a rating or a review? Why, the nerve! The audacity of a true starving artist with a chronic illness asking for verbal support! Next, I might have even gotten uppity and asked for financial support!
No. You indignant strangers do not get a speech after my retirement either. If you never read me, and you're only here now to see the train wreck, sorry guys, you already missed it. All you get to see is my closing statement: you people are the reason the libraries are closing, why the bookstores are failing, and why only the top 5% of writers earn a decent living. Because the only time you can be bothered to speak up is right after someone tells you to fuck off. But otherwise, you remain complacent as you watch other people sink in financial quicksand. Now you're offended because I gave you the finger on my way out the door? Ha, and fuck you too.
And from now on, this blog will be about book reviews, booze, guitars, and occasionally, my unnatural obsession with teenage breasts. There will be no comments allowed, and I don't give a fuck what rating my posts get. Your opinions matter to creative professionals. While I am creative, I don't earn enough money to give a fuck what any of you people think.
One last time, with feeling. Fuck you, sloth, and there's the door.
