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I write for the ones without a voice.

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if ever.
I tend to only check social media for work-related reasons. A few days ago, someone I knew from ten years ago commented on a screenshot I posted. It was from when we played Final Fantasy XI online together. I remember this person liked me, and he had a problem when he found out that I'm gay. He went about it in this roundabout way a few years ago, claiming that he didn't agree with "the gay lifestyle." I thought to myself, this is someone who can't stand that a woman isn't into him because of her sexuality. That might have been his passive-aggressive way of whining that I didn't like him back. I didn't care enough to ask.

I finally looked at his comment today. It seemed benign enough. Then again, it annoyed me that he went looking through my pictures, just because of his ego issues. So I looked through his pictures. Even if I were straight, I wouldn't find him attractive, even though he's a good-looking guy. His ego alone would be a turn-off. I found some meme in his album that said something like "if bitches look my way, that means they're going home with me," with a picture of Goofy from Disney looking smug as hell.


An ego problem, and seeing women as bitches to conquer? Miss me with that mess.


I have an editor assigned to Venus and Lysander for the pre-publication process. I have no idea how much longer this will take. I'm not in a hurry. I'm a bit weary from carrying around all of these ideas. Even though I am writing Ruska at a good pace, I'm hard on myself. I want to write faster so that I can finish these books. I just want them done. Pulling this baggage around is a lot to deal with. I don't show it to others. It's still here.

On the other side of the argument, I know I'll feel empty once everything's finished.

Is it worth bothering, all for commentary? I don't know. I'm annoyed beyond reason. Sometimes I only stay put because I think I deserve it. Or that if I work hard enough at it, things will be fine. Deserving: self-loathing? Pessimism. Cynicism. As if I need to latch onto something like this. That emptiness of being alone, like another felt--I get what she meant. I get why she fears it. But I can't be the same. The alternative is falling further where I am now. Sounds impossible, but that's what happens.

Going back to edit chapter six of Ruska a bit. This song features in the first half. Pretending the song is between two women instead.

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