Near to End

I have 52 pages now and, well, I think it's shit. Did I come to New School to write a bloody memoir? Not at all. But one of my professors in Chico suggested before I left that I should take advantage of the freedom my program allows me to do something like this. And so I am. And now that I have five days to finish this thing up, I all of a sudden think it's unworthy. But why? The people like it. "This is some powerful shit," wrote a friend of mine on my paper last week. She went on to say I should be writing books. So it's getting to someone. So what's this all about? The bottom line, I'm not on a high right now. Of course I've been up all night again. The birds have started in on their day. My feet are cold despite the fact I'm wearing socks and slippers. And I'm finding it hard to concentrate still. So I'm feeling vulnerable. Rejected (again, but why?). Confused. Dejected. Uninterested. Uninteresting. My plan: To go to therapy (thank god!) when I wake up. (If I ever go to sleep. It's now exactly 6:00 a.m. I took a break to pay bills. And now I'm broke.) Anyway, the rest of the plan is to work my ass off tomorrow night before and after the "Gilmore Girls." I'm just in a pity party right now that I hope will be over soon. This is all the stuff that I would have normally hidden deep inside like a 10.5 earthquake (what a stupid movie). I would have wanted to mask these fears and insecurities of mine, because I used to believe that no woman would want to be with someone who has them. So I don't know. There it is. And here I am. Still.