The stress of the fact that I am literally in the last leg of the race (worst cliche ever, how I graduated with my degree in English is fucking beyond me) is starting to hit me. The last two weeks were a slow go, waiting on my literary agent to go through the revised proposal with me. And I kind of lost the excitement of it because it got a little stagnant. And here it is, now completely out of my hands. It's all up to the gods of sex and fun and publishing. To be honest, it's fucking terrifying.
I have had, SO much fun in my life (I sound like I'm dying, I'm not, I'm just bored at home and over anxious), and I've always been proud of that fact. Sure there's shit that I look back and I cringe in embarrassment or I sometimes wish I could have a redo with. But I have been forced to look back over the last however many years I've been living my life like this and really take a hard look at it. And anyone who doesn't have balls or pride or the strength to enjoy themselves despite the bullshit and the reputations and the gossip, might look at it and say "I really fucked up". You gotta play the cards you chose, and the ones you were given. I was given a lot of fucking dicks (figuratively and literally) and instead of being the whispy idiot who just took all the bullshit or got used or simply wore it in silence, I chose to make it into something better. And there are SO many people who are pissed that I'm doing it. So many dudes who are livid that I would have the fucking audacity to tell them to fuck off and joke about how bad they were at sex, or their issues, or their dickhead moves. So many women who can't even fathom having more than one dick in their precious, Jesus ridden bagina. I don't care. I never have. Never will.
The book is a lot more than a bunch of lame stories about sex. It's seriously like, a timeline of how I got here and who I am now and the confidence I have now that I didn't at 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. I want it to work because it has always just worked for me. It's my life. And surprisingly, somehow, I'm still here. And in the last four months or so, this book has been like, my everything. It's hard to let it go to a place where it's about to be judged and critiqued and potentially rejected when it's seriously been the focal point of every single day of my life since October 11th, 2010.
I love to write. I always have. I can't imagine doing anything but experiencing shit, analyzing it and trying to share it like I do now. And when my literary agent e-mailed me to tell me the proposal went to Kensington/Citadel, I realized that this is really the big moment of whether the life I've chosen recently gets justified, where someone else other than my own ego decides whether to legitimize this whole fucking thing or not. And I guess in the grand scheme of shit, it only matters what I think. But it'd be really, really, really fucking great if someone else got it, too.
So here we go. The next couple of days will be insanely stressful (aside from the fact that 2nd date which has now been postponed 4 times, FOUR TIMES is on Thursday as well). I apologize if my posts aren't entirely up to snuff, or as frequent, but I don't foresee either of those things to be a huge problem.
My literary agent said he's hoping it'll be a couple of days until a response comes back, but it could be longer. But rest assured, you guys will be the first to know when I get the answer. Unless it's a rejection in which case the bottle of Jack in my room (I'm not an alcoholic, it's not hidden) will be the first to know. Then you guys. If you can decipher my drunken posting.
I'm going to go be all emo and watch the OC and fucking, drive my Jeep around the North Shore right now while wearing something from Abercrombie because I'm literally being 17. Lame.
PS...I felt like the "I'm sick, I can't drink, and I'm wearing a dumb hat" picture was totally appropriate for this totally angsty post. Woo.