Finally it seems like I'm getting a bit more time to pick up the pieces of my life, not that I have the energy to.
I figured that I would never ever hire myself for anything because I'm such an annoying pedant, I pick on anything and everything to no end just for this lost cause of 'perfection' that is always flawed and never a reality.
So many people have asked why I'm fretting so much about this whole editing thing when it she doesn't really keep to her deadlines due to, I dunno, maternal commitments. I figure it's all my whole suicide bomber mentality that dictates how I live my life. I think I throw myself into everything with the aim of self-destruction but why am I still alive?
The recent spate of deaths in the country, be it drowning or impalement or flattening - those happened so randomly, yet so decisively - killing only the person who was meant to die. Why does that fortune elude me, still?
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