With the menace of the cash job comes the slowing to the halt of real work. I've managed to do oh just about nothing on anything. A couple of pages of rewrites on Good World and last night a rewrite of a 10 minute play … in a week. Pathetic. Oh, the self-loathing is alive, well and happily residing on my shoulder. Everything sucks. Yes, it does. No, I'm not being petulant. No, I'm not. Oh, fuck off, all of you.
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