I purchased CassandraMason.com like any smart person in my situation would do. But now I’m confused as to how to make it its own website. But I did learn upon googling it that it leads one straight to this blog, which is a start I guess. I should just come out and admit that I don’t quite understand how the whole thing works. I hate it when something is like that, especially when it’s something I know I probably could have a grasp on, if I wanted to dedicate time to it.
Another thing to admit – now that TWELVE people (ELEVEN OF WHOM I KNOW IN REAL LIFE) sorry for the all-caps shouting, I had to, TWELVE people have my book….I have several short-lived panic attacks throughout the day, thoughts of things like:
-Everything you wrote is weird and awful and unpleasant and confusing to read. Way to go giving it to family and friends. Besite doesn’t matter, I’ve already done so much weird and or embarassing shit around her, or told her about it, that I don’t care if it’s the worst 217 page drivel crap she’s ever read, I’m sure I’d do the equivalent for her, if asked. Which she would never ask, but that’s just how she is.
-Your book isn’t good. People are probably not even going to be able to finish it.
-You gave your IN-LAWS a book to beta read with some pretty raunchy sex scenes. There’s a weird amount of biting and blood in conjunction with sex, mostly between two men. You’d think that was a fetish of mine but it’s not. I would not want someone biting me during sex, sometimes people just write things and think they belong in books THAT THEY THEN GIVE TO THEIR IN-LAWS TO READ. SO EXCITED to see if either of them acknowledge that. I wish I could be assured my sarcasm is registering, but I’m going to hope my hysteria and anxiety do even more.
-Your friends are going to look down on you and gossip about you behind your back. The second thing is kind of whatever, at least people are making fun of me for TRYING to write a book. People have looked stupid doing far worse. At least I fucking tried. But it’s the people looking down on me that I can’t fucking handle. I guess no one likes it, but there’s a certain sort of adult pride that’s born out of a certain lack of dignity in one’s childhood, and I have it. And I still have that “intelligent child” syndrome, even though I’m 31. At some point I’ll explain that one, along with the Athena syndrome, which I hypothesized in my teens, but that’s a story for another day. Right now I’m freaking out about my book.
I mean it’s only natural. It’s the only vaguely promising thing in my life. I guess that sounds very bleak but I don’t mean it like that. But my job is eh and it’s in an industry that isn’t so my thing, but also isn’t the worst, and this is a combination of the easiest and best-paying job I’ve ever had…so there’s that.
It sucks when you’ve been trying to have a kid, at least one, in your life, and you don’t want to be an older mother, just because it seems less practical, for many reasons, but then there’s also this nagging fear that further propogating the human race will just cause more suffering in the future because it’s already too late with like everything and the least I thought I could do is write a book about how bad things will get at the end, and this is for like magical creatures…the mere humans would never have made it this far if it weren’t for them. I’m quite sure I mention that a few times throughout the series. It’s strange to have most of it already written, rattling around my mind at different rates of interest, but that’s what’s been happening for a long time.
But it also sucks that you also get asked on occasion if you want to have kids, and you hate fucking answering because it’s not like you’re going to tell the truth. And of course it seems like literally everyone you know who WANT kids, have them. And you know you’re 31, and that’s really not that old, but you’re still thinking about how you are already at the point in your life where you need eight hours of sleep and strong coffee in the morning to feel human, but then you think you did grad school, surely you could do a newborn. You think the human body doesn’t suffer in college, you’re wrong.
And honestly, whenever you drive by a daycare or preschool, or the infant section in a store, part of you hurts in a way you’ve never aknowledged out loud. That’s all. That’s all that’s going on there, is all.
I have to take two of my cats, the two eldest ones, the ones I got when I was 17 and 18, respectively, to the vet today, in less than two hours. I’ve been crying from a very emotionally assaultive (is that a word?) book I had to read for a book club I joined in the hopes of making friends, because how else does one do that at 31? But also I enjoy reading and maybe I’ll discuss more than I did in undergrad and grad school. Maybe. And then I just started crying over my own shit, because of course I would. My therapist says all anyone does is take anything they read and internalize and make it about themselves. That sounded about right to me.
So I guess it’s best to just freak out every ten minutes about giving my beloved book (that might actually be trash garbage, weird sex/rape/blood fetish/biting fetish crap garbage) to my inlaws, and a guy from Twitter who is honestly way too wholesome to be reading my specific brand of writing…and three of my good friends from back in the day, when I worked retail and went to college and lived on my own and was sort of happy but sort of very poor and stressed and going into deeper debt each year because of school to emerge with a fairly useless degree. They’re fun people, and even all these years later they’re still fun to talk to, and we can easily sit arond for hours and entertain ourselves purely by talking, which to me is a huge part of being friends with someone, or just close with someone. And three friends of my husband’s. Then my husband, but his copy hasn’t been delved into at all. I’m starting to feel bad for him, because effing therapy is making me realize that he can’t help it, that he actually does want to read my book, but he literally never feels like he has time to, the idea of doing so truly overwhelms him. If it hadn’t happened in therapy I probably would have responded in a really venomous way, as is my nature, beause I was raised in a particularly hostile environment. Was I NOT suppose to get really good at fighting and arguing and in general being horrible to other people? Because really. Think about it. I mean I TRY to be above it, but defense mechanisms can come into play and I’m kind of out of control at that point. I’ve gone into lengthy blogs about what happens when that exact thing happens in a not-private way. Like at work. Oh GOD do I hate it when I get emotional at work. But like, there’s this specific lack of control that happens, but it happens SO infrequently, and I am normally a very chill person (I mean how much weed do I smoke? do you think that makes me tense?) so like they’ve just learned to treat me slightly like I’m a lunatic and I go about my way and don’t make waves because they don’t poke at me. More or less. I think. See sometimes I think it would be nice to get a job elsewhere. Strive to have it be a place I never cry in.
So often I wonder what’s wrong with me. I mean I sort of know.
But I think it’s best just to think about how Circumstantial Fortune might be shitty, and I’ve put so much into it at this point, than anything else that might be bothering me. Including the vet appointment for Oscar and Felix in an hour and a half. Time to get slightly done up or else the new vet will think we’re trash (we are) and will treat us accordingly. We’re trying the third and final vet near us, if we sully things here, or if they piss us off, then we’re really screwed.
Best to worry about that sort of stuff. I guess.