As of the eighth of this month, I’ve been writing my novel
We’re Fucked for two years. Two goddamn years of near-daily, painstaking work that has filled plenty of my spare time, as well as whatever time I could steal from work. The novel is already 3.12 times longer than the average. A few humans out there in this wide world have followed Leire’s descent into interdimensional derangement from the beginning, and if you’re one of those people, I must question your motivation, your sanity, and maybe even your level of mental retardation; I can’t imagine anyone other than myself genuinely enjoying this story, that delves deep into my psychological issues. In any case, thank you for the blips of dopamine that I receive whenever someone presses like on my stuff, and I hope you’re getting something out of the narrative other than nightmares.
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