I have been patient enough, I believe. I have took every punch, every broken bone, and every set-back and rolled with it, absorbed it, and I hope become a better man for it. Sometimes it's hard to keep getting up. However, that doesn't mean I won't get up again.
I need a fantasy factory. I need my own place to absorb inspiration, instead of calamity. Losing my job was potentially one of the best things to happen to me, but if I fail to make the best of it, it will have been for nothing. But I need a new avenue for finding an literary agent, or an editor.
I, I, I, I, I, iaiaiaiaii!
I have lacked academic and employment success. I am once again at the very bottom struggling my way back to something with a little more optimism. I am like the undead, crawling my way through six feet of dark, pliant earth reaching for the waxing moon, inexorably toward something better than this.
I just pray that Buffy isn't there when I rise again...