Ok, so I finally went and got me a Blog. I've seen so many author Blogs as of late, that I thought, what the hell? Might as well. I can't promise that all my posts will be interesting. I plan on using it mostly to rant. That way I don't end up killing someone. So why make my rants public? Well, you're here to read them, right, so there must be some interest in them.

To be honest, I've always been interested in the goings-on of other people's minds. Call me a Peeping Tom of the brain. I'm addicted to those books that are actual (or supposedly actual) diaries. You know the ones I'm talking about. "Go Ask Alice," has been a favorite of mine since I was about 12. Anyway, I thought, what if the shit that goes on in my head day after day could actually help someone? Maybe there's someone else out there with the same issues. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I like to rant to blow off steam, and if other people get a chuckle out of it, so be it.

So let's stop analyzing why I want to make my private thoughts public, and get right into what finally pushed me to create a blog. Today's rant: The Starving Artist.

So I call up my bank, fingers crossed, praying to any God that will listen. I had to write a check for my car insurance on Monday ($205) and yesterday I had $190 in the bank. I get paid tomorrow through direct deposit from my day job. I was hoping that the insurance company wouldn't deposit the check until tomorrow. Well, as with most shit in my life, it didn't work out the way I wanted it to. The little computerized voice tells me I'm overdrawn by $14. Great. Thanks.

So I call up the one credit card I still have, to find out how much I have available to me. I'm getting nervous now because that little gas light in my car lit up as I pulled into the parking lot this morning. I live 40 miles away from work. (Oh yeah, you'll get the commute rants in the future, I promise.) So once again I cross my fingers. Then the computerized voice on the phone tells me that I'm over my limit by $17, something they charge an extra $30 to my card for. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! So how the hell do I get home?

I ask my co-worker for $10, cheeks red. I hate, FUCKING HATE, borrowing money from people. Especially friends and co-workers. But I have to get home right? I know what you're thinking, big deal, you get paid tomorrow. Yes I do. And yes I will give that $10 right back tomorrow. Still, not something I wanted to go through. Especially not today. Not while still at the job from hell. (More on the job from hell another time.)

So here I am, making a decent salary as a writer and editor at an employment law/human resources publishing company. We put out those horrible booklets on sexual harassment in the workplace, disability discrimination, and all the other goodies. My husband recently started a new job with decent overtime. So why the hell am I still always a step behind in my bills? How the hell do I expect to ever become a full-time fiction writer? All I've ever wanted to do since I first learned how to read was be a writer. Not for some bullshit law company, but for myself. To write down the stories in my head. To have others read and enjoy them. And to be able to live off that alone.

The real world sucks. I spend all my time working at a job I hate and running a household that never seems to be in order. As much as I adore my family, all this leaves little time for writing. Little time to realize the dream. And for what? So I can have an overdrawn bank account, maxed out credit cards, and no gas in my car. Those things then lead to arguments over money with the husband and stress that turns into frustration with a seven-year-old who happens to be in one of her moods. Who the hell needs it?

Ok, so I have no solution. I have nothing more to say than, this is my life, I have to deal with it. But at least I got it all out. Sorry for such a long post the first time. Wait. No I'm not. If you don't like it, don't read it. No one forced you here! :) Till next time...