New Year Funk

Well, if 2011 could have sucked any more dick, it would have taken home an Adult Video award for a record of year-long dick-sucking. Oh sure, it wasn't all bad, but every time I had something that felt like an accomplishment, a day or two later, I'd get some news that sucked all the joy out of my wins and left me feeling just as frustrated and isolated as the days when I was being physically assaulted and counselors were telling me it was my fault for not "acting right."

I'm not big on making new year's resolutions because I figure most goals I set, I'd be setting myself up for failure and depressions on a special holiday. And I can set myself up for depression any day, really. But so this year, I'm thinking about what comes next, and I kind of want to have another goal. Writer didn't work out. I don't have enough confidence in my art skills to go that route, and I fear I'm always going to be a crappy guitarist. My voice is strictly lounge act quality, and I made one rap album and promptly erased it after a decent critical assessment. I did pottery in high school and thought that was fun, but somehow I can't see running a vase shop, online or not. Plus, that scene in Ghost with all the muddy clay didn't do anything for me.

That last sentence may be a partial lie.

Thing is, I don't know what I do next. I mean, part of my plan is to play more video games, I guess. I need to do something to pass the time. But I also need something to keep my thoughts occupied. I have to stay busy, or else that gives me more time to process memories, to run back through the mental minefield for something else I have to feel ashamed of for remembering.

Writing filled that time easily, and I took to the work so well. People for years were walking up to me, complete strangers who asked, "What's wrong?" because I looked so troubled. But I looked lost because my mind was totally occupied by working over the details of a story piece by piece. I glazed out of the real world and started writing new sentences in my head, often hundreds of times before I could ever commit them to paper. Nothing else requires this level of brain power. I can fix computers using only half my brain. No trust me, I should know. I've stumbled in to work dead tired after a night of hard partying and could still diagnose a bad PC back to good health. I wouldn't dream of writing with half my brain tried behind my back, because I've done that too, and the results were shit.

But my good writing isn't working for y'all either. I've got less than a decade before my health fails and then I'll be at the mercy of the state, taking whatever they feel like giving me. Which will mostly be blood tests because doctors don't do anything to me except cause pain. My dentures need to be replaced, and hubby keeps telling me I should leave the country and go somewhere where dental is reasonable. How bad is it here? Hubby's suggesting that flying to Texas and going back to the denture center would be cheaper than staying here.

Whatever, the point is, I can't plan my retirement on my writing skills. Even budgeting for regular bills or grocery money would be unwise. Every high dollar item that I'd appealed to the kindness of strangers for, I ended up paying for myself moths later after taking a job with a corporate editing job. People who claim to support the little guy would have let me starve to death, while Teh Man paid for my couch, for my replacement cane, for anything I really needed. But no one I appealed to during my various crises could be bothered to open their wallets and buy my stuff to keep me afloat. I had to give up on you and rely on myself every single time.

And that's a kick in the nuts, that I get more support from the corporate masters I hate than I ever do from the art community I contribute to. It's a kick to know I've got all these books in my editing queue, and don't expect any of them to sell more then ten copies in the opening six months. It hurts so bad that when I try to sit down and write now, I ruin it every time by asking "Who cares?" No one else does, and now I can't either. Whole populations of characters are dying in me now, because I no longer want to follow their stories. The Internet, with its built-in cynicism and lack of empathy, has taken all the joy out of creating.

I would sooner ask for my penis to be reconstructed than I would want to appeal to people to buy another one of my books. Because at least getting my penis back means I have something positive to look forward to: I'll get blow jobs again. I can't find anything positive about marketing to you people, though. You damage my health. You hurt my emotional balance, and you drain my wallet. And every time I ask, "tell me why this story isn't working?" the answer I get back is "NO DON'T sell us your books, sell YOU. You have to give us more before we'll bother with your writing."

No, fuck it. I'm tired of your fucking riddles and lies, because you never really mean any of the bullshit you spew. It just sounds good at the time you said it. Fuck you, and I've got better ways of wasting my time than pleading for your approval.

So what comes next? What do I do to avoid dying poor and indigent in some nursing home in my mid-fifties with nobody visiting me or even knowing I exist? I don't know. Which I think is why I can say honestly that even though I hated 2011 and wanted it to be gone, I'm terrified of 2012. Because for the first time in many years, I don't have any idea of what my place in the world is.