I-hate-my-life

All posts tagged I-hate-my-life

Total Meltdown

Published July 25, 2020 by Iphis of Scyros

So, I just had a total f***ing meltdown here.

I was looking at this list of world-building resources from World Anvil.  There’s some really useful stuff on that list, especially this list of world-building questions that’s given me a lot of things I want to add to my template.  This guide to drawing maps (including a way to randomly generate them in Photoshop) was useful enough that I want the link to it here so I can get at it on my phone and thereby consult it while I’m on my good computer, the one that actually has Photoshop, not just GIMP.  (Though it might be too old a version of Photoshop to be able to follow the tutorial…)

But then I tried to read the tutorial on how to hand-draw maps if you’re artistically challenged.  It was a .pdf guide, but for some reason it insisted on downloading instead of letting me read it in the web browser.

And every single time I try to open the file, it crashes after about a minute.

I scanned it repeatedly with my antivirus software.  I tried the “search online for a solution” choice on the crash menu.

It keeps on crashing.

And after the fifth or sixth time, I just had a complete meltdown.

Seriously, I threw off my glasses and just started crying.

It’s like that.  It’s always like that.  Every time I want to do something or find a way around one of my many inabilities, there are always roadblocks.  It always comes back impossible in one way or another.

The universe is trying to tell me not to bother, because I’ll never, ever succeed.

And, okay, I get it.

So, I’ll never be able to draw a map.

Fine, I get that.

But lately it seems like it’s also telling me to give up on fleshing out this world because it will never be good enough, never real enough, never even good enough to get people to suspend their disbelief even a little bit.

Maybe the universe is just trying to convince me to give up on my insane notion that I’ll be able to make a video game in this world I’ve been working on.

If that’s all it is, that’s fine.

But I don’t think that’s it.  I think the universe is telling me to give up on writing at all, because I suck at it so badly.

But everything I try to do, it always comes back the same:  I’m no good and should give up.

It wasn’t (allegedly) my fault I lost my job.  But despite weak claims that maybe they’d be able to hire me back when the world gets back to normal (if it ever does), it was pretty clear that they really don’t want me back, ever.  I mean, they won’t even let me keep doing the job for free.  That’s pretty telling, you know?  How bad do you have to be at a job that they won’t even let you keep doing it for free?  I shudder to think what those recommendations they offered to write would say if I ever asked for them.  (Since no other museums are hiring given what’s going on, and since I was never actually qualified for the job in the first place, obviously I’ll never need them.)

But I thought that being a freelance proofreader sounded like a good thing.  I thought it was a sure bet that I could at least get a little money coming in that way.  My own error-filled text notwithstanding, I genuinely am good at spotting errors in spelling, grammar and punctuation.  But every job market I can find for a freelance proofreader wants years of experience.  (Or a photograph, which is even worse.)  I don’t have years of experience.  I did some proofreading at the museum, but only maybe half a dozen times a year over about four and a half years.  That would only count as a few days’ experience of the sort they mean.  And really it’s less than that, given how many of my edits were ignored.  (There were also a couple of times I was lectured on my edits being “too harsh” but really it’s not my fault if I started getting a little snippy when people with Master’s Degrees were producing text that would get an F in a high school composition class.)

So, the universe is telling me I can’t get work as a proofreader, the only thing I have that even comes close to being a marketable skill, and that I can’t ever make the game I want, the only thing I would ever be able to produce that anyone might pay even a tiny amount of money for, so what am I left with?

How am I supposed to make a living, universe?  I have no skills, and so many social phobias that there’s no possibility of doing something like retail, and so many health issues that I couldn’t get work in any kind of factory setting, if there even are any in this town.

So what am I supposed to do?

Even if I cut off all my unnecessary spending, I can’t live forever on my trust fund.  It’s not that big, and of course it’s much smaller now than it was last year, given the nosedive that the stock market went into because of COVID.

I mean, I know the whole world only has ten, maybe twenty years left, but…the money won’t last even that long.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

Other than try to stop thinking about it so I”ll stop crying at least long enough to eat my lunch.


For what little it’s worth, before my meltdown I was able to spend 53 minutes working on taking notes based on all those world-building resources, making for 24:59:46.56 total time spent in July.

What helmet would you wear?

Published July 7, 2015 by Iphis of Scyros

Would it be dragon-shaped?

Bronze? Leather? Boar’s tusk? Dainty or massive? Or would you wear a hat, because you–like me in this lifetime–would prefer to avoid harming other living beings?

I’m asking because I’ve recently realized that the one thing I want more than anything else is to go to sleep and wake up to discover that my whole life has been a bad dream. I guess I’ve wanted that for a long time, but it’s become a more pressing desire lately than it has been in the past.

I’ve figured out that it is impossible for me to succeed at anything; I am congenitally bred for failure in all things, but particularly in all things that could lead to anything emotionally or financially rewarding. The better I think something I’ve done is, the worse it is received by others, though sadly the reverse is not the case.

This has its obvious problems, as you can well imagine.

The question is, then, how in the world am I supposed to make it in this world?

I obviously can’t do so by my writing: born and bred for failure definitely applies to my already underwhelming writing skills.

But I haven’t any other skills to use, either.

Too stupid for academia. We’ve established this repeatedly.

Literally no ability to process visual imagery, so no hope of discovering any latent ability in any visual artistic medium.

Even if I had any acting ability (and I don’t), I look like the south end of a north-bound hippopotamus (only less gray) so there’s no chance of going into the performative arts.

No physical stamina, no social skills and no work history, so I can’t go into basic career paths like sales clerks and whatnot.  (Plus I’m way too old to be starting at entry level positions.)

I am left with literally nothing, unless I get someone else to win the lottery on my behalf and give me the money.

Like that would ever happen.

How the heck did I manage to screw my life up this badly?  Usually, to wreck a life, you’d expect someone to have to engage in danger sign activities like drugs, drinking and wild sex.  I’ve never done any of those things.  (Well, I did at one point in my life I did do a tiny amount of drinking, but one margarita on the rare occasions when I went to a nice Mexican restaurant hardly seems to count.  Especially since I always asked for it to be a weak one.)

I often like to think it’s karma.  That I’m so screwed up in this life not (just) because I made so many spectacularly stupid decisions, but because I did something so terribly wrong in a previous life that this life is punishment for it.

In which case, in the previous life, I must’ve been an oversexed, male chauvinist who routinely went about a battlefield slaughtering people left, right and center.  Not really a very nice thought.  Particularly because I haven’t really been “good” enough in this life to earn a better next life, I wouldn’t think.  (Then again, what the heck do I know?  I have little to no knowledge of the Hindu religion from whence the reincarnation terminology springs, and while I’ve read a summary of the Socratic/Platonic philosophic equivalent of reincarnation, it was only a one page summary, and I read it a couple of days ago, while my head was all wobbly with medication, so my information retention was not at its best, to say the least.)

Anyway, I realize that complaining about it isn’t going to make it any better, but I’m not quite sure what will, and sometimes just talking about it (or–in this case–typing about it) can help me work through my thoughts and try to come to grips with the situation in the hopes of understanding things and finding possible solutions.

Though at the moment I certainly don’t see any.

And my head is still a bit wobbly, I’m sorry to say.  I was hoping I’d be adjusted to the medication by now.

Another bitter milestone

Published March 14, 2015 by Iphis of Scyros

I lost it this morning.

I was getting ready to e-mail my interviewee to ask to set up an appointment for the interview.

In my inbox, I found an e-mail from the student who had been delegated to be in charge of getting the final question list ready.  The e-mail was, essentially, a poll, which he was going to have to tally to determine the final question list.  “Better him than me” should have been my thought.

Instead I was washed over first with tiredness, then disgust, and then fear, even downright terror.

I thought to myself “Okay, I’ll e-mail the interviewee first and then I’ll deal with this.”

But I couldn’t.  I stared at the sheet of paper with her contact information, and I could feel myself starting a panic attack.

I dealt with the question list, sent it back, and then spent about an hour or so composing an e-mail to my professor.

Because I can’t simply drop the course and have it vanish into the ether.  The time for that is past.  Now it’ll be on my transcript, no matter what.  But it’s up to the professor as to whether it’ll be an “EX” or an “F”.  And I can’t just drop the course and hope it’ll be an “EX”.  So I had to e-mail him and ask which it would be.

Long before I was ready to send the e-mail, I was crying so hard that I had to repeatedly take off my glasses and clean them.

I’m scared to check my e-mail and find out what he said.

I know I have to, and soon, because if he says he’d give me an “F” for dropping the course, then I have to contact the interviewee as quickly as possible, and somehow force myself to go through with the interview.  A bad interview with a stellar research paper to follow it up will have to net me a better grade than an “F”.  Not, perhaps, by very much, but…

So, yeah, it’s been a really lousy day.

Ironic, since I had started out the day thinking up a great scene for a follow-up book to my quasi-Young Adult novels.  But because of the e-mail thing, I never ended up writing it down.  Maybe I’ll be able to get to that after my bath.

On a completely unrelated–and less depressing–note, I went out to dinner and hit some used game/toy stores with my brother, who also had a bad day, though nowhere near as bad as mine.  On the way back, we stopped at the grocery store, because I needed to pick up a couple of minor things.  He commented that, since it was Pi Day, we should grab a slice of pie at the grocery store while we were there.  (Our grocery store sells these freshly made pies from what used to be a local restaurant/pie shop that now just makes pies to sell in grocery stores.  They’re really good, though the variety is nothing like what there was at the restaurant.)  He also said that he felt sorry for people in Europe, because it’s not Pi Day for them, ’cause there it’s 14/3/15 instead of 3/14/15.  Anyway, we got to the case where the pies are kept, and I’ve never seen it so low before.  They had almost no individual slices left (only a couple of slices of apple, cherry and coconut cream (fortunately, I like coconut cream, though I would have preferred pecan)) and the 4″ pies were in small supply, too.  Even the full size pies were in considerably reduced numbers.  Apparently, everyone else had the same idea he did.  Maybe it was on the news or something.

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