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Does not fucking matter

Thursday 8/22/19

I am exhausted. The panic attacks are exhausting. I feel like they scar my lungs. Leave marks behind because they are just so pain-wracking. I have had to beg for more work today. Even the people I write for have no clue who I am or what I do. I worry that I have passed far beyond the ken of what a human can accept or even think about as possible. I cannot very well say to someone I am desperate to work for that, yes, that is just how it is, I am an expert, the expert, the leading expert, on all of those things. The other people who come to them, they know nothing about anything, they get their assignment, they skim from Wikipedia, it's all knew to them, they do their Journalism 101 routine. You get compared to what everyone else does or can do. Last night I discovered that there are analytics on my Facebook author page I was not aware of. I have some people telling me I'm closer than ever, I will soon have millions of fans, millions of dollars, to keep going. I say to these people, the numbers are what the numbers are. No one signs up for anything, no one buys a book, no one follows on Twitter, no matter how high profile the gig, no matter how impeccable the work, how revolutionary the work, how entertaining the work. No one cares. That is the reality right now. I learned from these analytics that if I post a link to a WSJ op-ed, a story in Harper's, a link to me on the radio, a link to this blog, that not a single so-called friend or family member will click on that. These are the people who are supposed to be in my corner. And the reality is that they could not give a fuck about my work. I have an industry that hates me more than it hates anyone, a world that does not read, and friends and family who are not going to spend a second reading what I compose. A moronic snapshot of me smiling? They'll click on that. Jesus fucking Christ it is hard to keep going. Doesn't matter what it is. A piece on the Patriots, a piece on the Beatles, "Fitty" excerpt, me pouring out my soul on these pages, they do not give a flying fuck. Not worth their time. That's fucking great, my fucking people. It's like my work is a form of punishment. I get that reading fucking sucks, but that's because everyone else is fucking terrible at it. And the radio? Do you know how good I am on the radio? I'm better than Orson Welles on the radio. I'm better on radio than anyone has ever been in the history of radio, and I'll say that here because it's fucking obvious if you listen and it's not remotely close and who the fuck is reading this anyway? Does not fucking matter. I could fill up a page here with racist screeds as an experiment and it's not going to matter. Nothing fucking matters right now. What did I write today? I invented a new form of fiction. Utterly unlike anything ever composed. Does not fucking matter. I am so fucking exhausted. Though I still made time to see Emma off to school. She does not eat. She never has any energy and it's not because she's depressed, because she's thriving and doing well, in part because of us and what I have brought to her life (as for my own life, it might have been over already without her, but the only thing I know will insure it has a natural length is if this situation changes and I get what I should be getting). Yesterday she had a muffin and a cake pop at Starbucks and nothing else and I don't know if there is any food in her house or what and she is always tired and what am I supposed to do? I bought her food today and I'll just not get coffee later. It's not like I can be like, "hey, don't eat," and I also do not want to worry about her because she is good and she is kind to me and her being okay is one thing off my mind. I walked her to the train and we were on this side street near where we live and I wasn't saying anything and she slipped her arm through mine and said, "hey, hey, are you all right?" To be honest with you if I was alone I would have been sitting there crying, which is a big enough portion of every day at this point. Good motherfuck Christ this is is bad. I am not going to fucking make it, dude. I am just not going to fucking make it.