Where's a Medicci when you need one?

If this woman doesn't hire someone now, I'm going to punch her. Dead. In. the. Face.

No, I won't do that...but damn, wouldn't it feel good?

Well, for all of my bravado about quitting at the end of February, and I'm still freaking here.

*sigh*

Money sucks. Loans suck. Job sucks.

I dug out a bunch of screenplay/sketch/short story things that I've written over the last few years. I've got a LOT of stuff. 4 or 5 half finished screenplays for short and not quite full length films. A whole mess of poetry--some good, some bad, some...well...some...And then there are the short stories. A bunch of them.

And then there are the essays/rants. Lots of them.

And two articles.

I need time, some cash, and the freedom to spend 14 hours writing and doing nothing else. Man, I really miss hanging out in New Haven when I was just *there* I did a lot. I was there to write, and I did. Didn't share most of it, but I wrote and wrote, and some of it was good.

I want to be that guy again. The one who was proll-liff-ick [sic], and moody, and who just churned out stuff. Who cares if it was good or not. I was happy, and living life, and even when I was bitching and moaning about women (so what's changed, really?), I was OK.

Now I'm just tired and pissed all the time. When I'm not drunk, or asleep. Or being bitter.

Hey, thank goodness for LJ, or I'da starved out for the brain purge.

So, yeah, I owe like umpty dozen stories to some of you (Michael, Liz, most noteably), but when I get home, I can't really think...I can just *spew* about what's on my chest. Can't hide it, make it pretty. I just purge.

Like now.

Las Vegas, Powerball, or The Lottery...which can I get my shlush fund started with? Hmmmm....