Even sick I finished two chapters yesterday. That is hella good. I did do a chapter today. I called off work again. I may even need to go back to the hospital. I may not even have a job anymore. I'm nearly certain that's the case.
Can't help I can't breathe. But I can sit down in front of the laptop and do some writing. My article is still being featured. Kind a huge deal considering most of the features are illustrations and art related. The fact my writing made it makes me feel capable.
I started another chapter today. A second one because I did write the chapter "The Clusterfuck of a Nymphomaniac" and then to make sense out of it it made sense to do the Neal chapter next. He was referred to ask Fake cancer so many times during my freedom of oppression vaginal rage that it made sense he was the next chapter. Explaining my damages. Explaining how after everything I was able to give it all up. Put the sex addict in me away and try to attempt to live a normal life. Why I had to after his extreme narcissistic traits.
Things I'm still healing from. Not wanting to be the monster he is to the rest of the world. I have two pages done. Not even the tip of the iceberg. And I'm emotionally drained form it. I don't think I could have the chapter missing. It is about me, my life, and for three terribly long drawn out years and escapades of me bending over backwards it happened.
As much as he would be the person I would eternal sunshine out of my mind, It's not possible and pieces of my story make zero sense without this chapter. So while I spent the day painstakingly going through a ton of other bitter romances, and at some times... arousing myself rehashing my sexual escapades, I got 13 pages of chapter 3 done.
I talked to my friend Sarah who is published through Random House, and got some advice from her. I also think since my article is a feature for a book picked up by Harper Design, I can stick to my timeline. My outline, and I can do this. I am capable. I am able. I am fucked up and I believe being honest about it other people will feel slightly better about being fucked up too.
It's the ugly truth. The real crappy things I've done and lied about. The drugs, the sex, the depths. The abuse, the wasting of myself. My hopes my dreams.
He even now, looking back at all the things I've done in my life and the sorted oddness they have came with, he is the most exhausting. I really do believe he is evil. To this day. Evil.
I think I may have to go back and finish his chapter at the end. To not suck me dry from the rest of the book.
It was ugly. More than broken just harsh. A story needed to be told for anyone else living though the same situation. So they know those chains are breakable.
Nothing to masturbate with that material.
Can't help I can't breathe. But I can sit down in front of the laptop and do some writing. My article is still being featured. Kind a huge deal considering most of the features are illustrations and art related. The fact my writing made it makes me feel capable.
I started another chapter today. A second one because I did write the chapter "The Clusterfuck of a Nymphomaniac" and then to make sense out of it it made sense to do the Neal chapter next. He was referred to ask Fake cancer so many times during my freedom of oppression vaginal rage that it made sense he was the next chapter. Explaining my damages. Explaining how after everything I was able to give it all up. Put the sex addict in me away and try to attempt to live a normal life. Why I had to after his extreme narcissistic traits.
Things I'm still healing from. Not wanting to be the monster he is to the rest of the world. I have two pages done. Not even the tip of the iceberg. And I'm emotionally drained form it. I don't think I could have the chapter missing. It is about me, my life, and for three terribly long drawn out years and escapades of me bending over backwards it happened.
As much as he would be the person I would eternal sunshine out of my mind, It's not possible and pieces of my story make zero sense without this chapter. So while I spent the day painstakingly going through a ton of other bitter romances, and at some times... arousing myself rehashing my sexual escapades, I got 13 pages of chapter 3 done.
I talked to my friend Sarah who is published through Random House, and got some advice from her. I also think since my article is a feature for a book picked up by Harper Design, I can stick to my timeline. My outline, and I can do this. I am capable. I am able. I am fucked up and I believe being honest about it other people will feel slightly better about being fucked up too.
It's the ugly truth. The real crappy things I've done and lied about. The drugs, the sex, the depths. The abuse, the wasting of myself. My hopes my dreams.
He even now, looking back at all the things I've done in my life and the sorted oddness they have came with, he is the most exhausting. I really do believe he is evil. To this day. Evil.
I think I may have to go back and finish his chapter at the end. To not suck me dry from the rest of the book.
It was ugly. More than broken just harsh. A story needed to be told for anyone else living though the same situation. So they know those chains are breakable.
Nothing to masturbate with that material.
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