of significant importance

i've lost my sense of purpose. to be fair to the bruised and broken me, i never really had it firmly in my grips, but i was at least on the path to something...something i could clearly see ahead of me. i was walking forward and i was going and i was doing it, damn it!

i'm of course referring to my writing/acting plan. i write every day. sometimes what i write actually resonates with others and causes me to think that maybe, just maybe, i got this. maybe this is my true purpose: to write, to express, and to do it in the most quirky way i can possibly muster up.

but lately...for a couple of months really, i've felt that maybe my quirkiness doesn't really have a place in literary circles quite yet. i don't know many people getting literary agents for writing about boobies on balls and seppuku.

this has wreaked havoc on my essence of cool...my swagger is shot to shit. i am seriously mopey and melancholy. i see actresses and i give a loud eeyore sigh of want. i hear of trips to far away lands and i kick rocks...somehow i've become really dang great at not focusing on what i have going on. seeing people rubbing my dreams all over their ass distracts me.

i haven't posted any of my fit bottomed girl stuff in awhile, but i'm still working hard at that while trying not to look like a complete dweeb in the process. i'm still working with my agent. (crazy surprise! i got desperate and couldn't tell her to kiss my empty broke ass wallet) i'm still running to the mailbox every day in search of literary agent letters...still.

and i'm still at my job...a massive hodge podge of bore. still allowing the man to suck any and all creative juices and energy from my skull.

i'm blaming all this ish on the curse of the 20s. we're not supposed to get what we want in our 20s. we're not supposed to get our perfect career...this comforts me. that is, it comforts me until i see a 23-year-old hose beast doing the damn thing. then seppuku comes drifting right on back in.


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