Instead of writing, I spent Saturday afternoon wine-ing. Still have a few hours to finish the bottle.
It seems apropos to get drunk off of a wine from the region of the country that represents my biggest mistake. The one I knew I was making. The one I let everyone talk me into continuing on when I knew it was wrong. But I listened to others, and not me, and twenty five years later – I am still suffering from the mistake.
As far as my dream of being a noted author. It is time to wake-up.
What is the point of writing another sentence?
No matter how many stories I have written, I am a failure as an author, as I have been a failure at everything else.
Life remains an inescapable hole.
And I remain a lonely, lost loser.
Sick of my fucking life.
Stuck in this trap.