First off, we're stuck here in Brewster. If I want my store, we have to stay here (even though the store feels like a pipe dream). If we chuck it all and leave, then what?
And then there's the news that our tenant of six years is leaving. Now I have to find a new tenant and fast. And I have to paint that damn apartment again—and this time without Air America.
Then there's our house that needs so much work that we'll never get to it. All the things we did when we first got here now need to be done again. Fuck you, house.
Then there's the fact that I don't know how much longer I'll be able to drag myself into school to teach. I think I'm almost done with that. So . . . what's next? Destitution probably.
Then there's the catalyst for all of this misery: the novel that I slaved over. I cannot find an agent to represent it . . . but Snooki can get a book published. And Sarah Palin, the woman who makes Mrs. Malaprop look like a brilliant wordsmith, not only publishes books but sells them.
If I self-publish, well, it has the stink of desperation, a big L for loser. But, also, then I have to do all the work—not only write the book but market it too. And I'm lazy and not good at self-promotion. If I was any good at it, I would be in an entirely different place, wouldn't I? If I do decide to self-publish, perhaps I might make some money to pay some of my kids' college tuition but there's no respect in it. And chances are excellent that I won't make any money, even that I'll lose money on the whole thing, which would really piss me off.
Speaking of college tuition, I'm not sure Jackson is even going to get there. High school is, apparently, hard. It's also not worth it, stupid, etc. The teachers don't teach, it's boring, there's too much homework, and the litany of complaints goes on. It's much more worthwhile to stay up all night, sleep all day, and play the guitar in between. If he makes it to college, how do we foot the bills anyway? The bulk of Jackson's tuition money resides in a coin jar in our closet. Dean occasionally dips into it for coffee money.
And my dad's house in Florida? It went on the market the month before the market crashed there in that useless and hellish state. Yes, we should have taken the first offer we had. Now it's worth about the same amount of money as a decent car, and needs a new roof. My sister is sending the roofer's contract to me so I can peruse it because as everyone knows I'm a contract attorney. Or something. At this point, since there's no hope of it ever burning down because it's made of concrete cinder blocks, I would like to give the damn thing away just so I don't have to deal with any of this stupidity.
To make matters even worse, my partner in all of this despair is Dean, he of the perennial depressive personality. So, there's no place to go except down.
Thank God no one reads my blog otherwise I'd never post this!