life is not rosy

Welp, I moved off social.yesterweb because I am now 150% done with the whole yesterweb and everyone that promotes its faux-nicey-nicey Web 1.0 garbage. Note: an artist wanting eyeballs on their work is not a sellout, a cop-out, a slave to the algorithm, a corp shill, or anything other than that, and if you have EVER uploaded ANYTHING to the internet AT ALL, you should fucking know that. Don’t even TRY to tell me that you just did it for yourself; if you did, you’d have kept it on your hard drive. You want people visiting your shitty .gif strangled site, just as much as I want people reading my words. Screw. You.

I will not be called a bad person because I want people to read my writing, for God’s sake. Fuck the yesterweb, and especially fuck ANYONE who claims it’s all about love and creativity and friendliness. Yeah, until you step out of the lines.

Done, kaput, over.

Oh yeah, still suspended on Twitter. I finally find a community there and they do this to me. There’s only one word for their automated suspension system and unfortunately, it won’t sink in, because automated.

Or I’ll get suspended for saying it.

Again.

To quote Eowyn, “everything makes me sad.”

…I need to take a shower for ten years.

Putting it out there: BookTube is a load of toxic, self-righteous, self-important jackasses who I actually hate more than most of the badly-behaved authors they tear to shreds because they are flawless people.

Nothing, nothing has made me less enthusiastic about the craft of writing than the whole damn writing community. It’s absolute poison.

what a waste of years

The doctor gave me pills to take
To stop me feeling quite so awake
To take the edge off of this big black cloud
But now it is quarter to ten
I’ll sit with a paper and a pen
Just writing shit until I fall asleep

I’ve got a heart
I think it’s bigger than yours
Because it lets people in
Who constantly disappoint me
And I’ve got a soul
And it’s as sad as they come
Because it used to feel everything
And now it’s just numb, numb, numb

Polly Scattergood

it might be better if…

I don’t…think it would matter much if I disappeared.

I don’t mean that in an “I want to kill myself” way, because I don’t at the moment, not really. I’m sad, but not in the pit.

I just…I don’t feel it would make any difference to anyone’s life, whatsoever, if I vanished. It might even make some people’s lives easier. I don’t…belong here. Or anywhere. The whole world is made up of flashing lights and bright images and I’m all words. I’m a book in a world where nobody cares to read. I can’t move fast enough, and whenever I think I can, the world speeds up on me. I ambar ahyanë. I don’t really belong anywhere. And all I do is injure my heart when I look for a place I do.

 

really do not want, at all, ever.

It hath descended. ‘It’ being the thing I have to go through for medical reasons that usually I stop happening altogether for my own continued survival, the thing that most people equipped with the same organs as I have just sort of sigh and work around. I, on the other hand, would be throwing myself into oncoming traffic if I could, in fact, move more than my fingers due to severe pain.

(And will they give me relief for said severe pain? Oh, sweet summer child, you are adorable, you are.)

…so. Yep. Excuse any hellishness escaping from my general direction for the next week or so. Also, late replies or slow updates or whathaveyou; I’ve been arguing with myself over even posting this entry for the past three hours. All I want to do is sleep the pain away, honestly.

(At least I got my hair washed and dried?)