Am I gaining weight?
I ate half a pizza today. I ate half of a whole pizza. It was so bad for me. I was supposed to eat turkey burgers at home, but instead I spent money I don't have on a pizza.
I don't have any money. I have no money. I took a year off to write, to do contract work, and it's not enough for me to take any sort of vacation or go out to eat. I'm living off a shoestring budget, which I haven't done since undergrad.
Once in undergrad, I treated my friend like crap. Now she's not my friend. My other friend isn't my friend, either.
All of the friends I now have will eventually hate me. It's just a matter of time, a matter of when I screw up and offend them or do something hurtful. Even my best friends, I will lose.
I am losing to time. I am almost thirty, and did you know, according to this documentary I watched tonight, that Walt Disney was a famous and innovative success by the time he was thirty?
I'm almost thirty. I'm getting old. I had a cancer scare already. Do I really think I'm going to live forever?
I don't have forever. My MFA program is disappearing faster than I can enjoy it.
I can't enjoy anything. I don't even enjoy writing this book anymore. I wonder if it's showing in my writing.
I wonder if I am ever going to believe in myself as much as the famous people believed in themselves. I thought all of everyone knew they sucked, but then asshole Cormac McCarthy was quoted on Facebook today, announcing that he always knew he could write. Asshole Cormac McCarthy.
Melissa McCarthy is fat. I'm fat. So fat. I was feeling good about my weight, but then I ate wedding cake out of the box and I had that pizza this weekend and that other pizza this evening. I really like pizza.
I shouldn't have eaten the pizza.
I should have written more. I wrote three hours today, and it wasn't enough.
How can I be as good at this, as confident at this, as I was when I was a kid? I used to not care what people thought of my writing. I used to have my best friend who would listen to my manuscript and she loved it and she loved me, and now she doesn't return my messages. I like to think it's because she got taken over by a Yeerk.
Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman had a baby. That baby is going to have parents who understand him. My parents were a lawyer and a wedding coordinator.
Our wedding looked nice, at least. Our marriage is good, at least.
Until one of us dies in a car accident/surgery gone wrong/meningitis/all of the above.
One of us will watch the other one die.
If it's me, then he doesn't have to suffer. But I'll be alone.
If it's him, it'll kill him.
We're both going to die earlier than expected, because we ate that pizza tonight. It was greasy. We're both gaining weight.
Am I gaining weight?
What is this?
Dawson is a writer. This is her blog. In it, you shall read about reading. And writing. And cheeseburgers. Sometimes there are tangents. Huzzah.