Fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
Today is the kind of day that makes me just want to curl up in bed and close my eyes and tune out until tomorrow comes.
Except if I did that today would find a way to fuck me over while I slept. An earthquake would hit and the ceiling would collapse on the bed, or I don’t know…something would inevitably happen just so today could prove to me that all I am is a plaything of the Gods…
It’s funny because last night I went to this inspirational talk by someone who died once upon a time and lost an arm in a car crash and now gives motivational speeches about counting our blessings. He even had the whole room on their feet as he strummed a guitar with his bionic hand, singing a song that went ‘I am blessed…I am blessed’ (very Kumbayah). And I went home thinking, yeah I am blessed, and singing it into my pillow.
And it’s like the Gods wanted to LAUGH in my face or something at my naivete (or maybe they didn’t like my singing) so they connived all night to make this day suck in order to teach me a lesson.
First off I wake up and realize that I have work to do. Now I’m not a work shirker. I work my ass off and I don’t complain because I LOVE my job (my author job that is). But lately I’ve been having to do copywriting to pay the bills because NEWSFLASH all you deluded folk out there who think authors make money WE DON’T (so if you are one of the many who download my books illegally I really, really hope that karma comes and bites you on the ass one day).
The long and the short of it is that I’m stuck writing copy about man boobs and retro bikinis and liposuction and honest to GOD about Hulk Hogan in neon spandex. Google that. Most likely I wrote it.
Seriously. I’m having to earn money for food by selling my soul and writing copy about celebs in speedos. Some days I actually contemplate just not eating ever again and keeping my integrity intact, but then I get a reminder about the school fees.
John and I sip our coffee and discuss the perennial problem we have; namely money and earning enough to stay in Bali and drink green juice. Green School fees don’t come cheap, rents have almost doubled, the cost of living is not peanuts here (SHHHHHHHH I don’t want to hear it about the pedicure obsession. I’ve cut back) and we have to fly home every summer to see family. Anyway boohoo I hear you say, you live in Paradise…and you’re right. I should quit complaining. I don’t have a bionic arm.
But we keep wondering when the time will come that we can make a good living from doing the things we love (ie. Not sourcing images of David Hasselhoff showing off his floatie). Is that day ever going to come? Our biggest risk – quitting our jobs in London – was rewarded almost instantly. It made us think we were invincible.
Now we contemplate a second jump off the precipice. Should we start saying no to work we don’t love, trusting the universe will leap in and fill the gap? I want to believe. I do. But judging by day I’ve just had I think the universe right now just wants me to do that so it can laugh in my face when I slice myself open on the jagged rocks below.
Evidence 1: John bought me a lovely new nail polish – Chanel – gorgeous. I am carrying it downstairs and drop it. It plunges 30feet and smashes on the kitchen floor below. There are crime scenes with less splatter. And blood hoses off. Nail varnish doesn’t. (I acknowledge that by sitting on the kitchen floor dipping the brush in the splatter and painting my nails in order to at least get some worth from it, I didn’t help matters when it came to trying to clear it up.)
Goddamn it. Glass splinters in my knees, ruined nails and my entire bottle of nail polish remover used up trying to scrub off pink streaks from the tiles and kitchen cabinets.
Evidence 2: I’ve spent about 50 hours editing my third Fated book on my Kindle. I switch on my Kindle this morning and every single edit note has vanished. What? Mercury isn’t even retrograde. I hate you Kindle. You suck more balls than John Travolta.
You see where I’m going with this?
Yes. That’s right. To the cupboard that contains the gin.
ps. I know, I know…I really don’t have anything to complain about. I’m just having a winge. Humour me.