Blecch.

No proper updates over the last few days. The bug I came down with on Tuesday turned out to be a bit more serious than I thought. I went into work on Wednesday, which was really clever, because the next day I was even worse. I'm starting to pull out of it now. (I hope.)

What all this means, of course, is that I'm only going to get a single day's pay for the whole of last week: about thirty-five quid. Yippee skip.

I'm sick of this. I'm really sick of this. I'm sick of the fact that after I've worked and fought to make something of myself I'm still here, in this lousy job, in this lousy life. I'm sick of being stuck here and watching the bastards that sail past me with all the rewards, everything I've never had, everything I'll never get.

I mean, there has to be a reason I'm still in this mess, right? You have a little talent, you work hard, you make it. Or you get something, anything. So it must be me. It must be. I'm not good enough, or persistant enough, or whatever.

I finished another story a couple of nights back. I've been trying to get enough enthusiasm together to send it off and I can't. I just don't care anymore. I mean, what was I thinking? People like me, we don't make it. Nobody's interested in what a half-bright chick with a demi-education and a comedy medical condition has to say.