So, I’ve been writing a book series Mind Fuck’d. This book is not like anything I’ve ever read. But I’ve had to relentlessly go over my stories to proofread for a good flow. I hate, loathe, despise writing this series. It’s a time waster, and causes me anxiety and I have mob dreams. I wake up during the night frightened for no other reason than this damn book. I’ve journaled for years on frequent car problems like suspicious oil leaks, flat tires, blowouts, radiator fluid leaks. Power windows n’ door locks stop working. Gas tank lid broken. Just weird stuff that has no warning. No one ever returns my calls. Ever. Everything I’m involved in involves lengthy wait times. So I’m naturally very disappointed. Not to say, my almost 4 year old grandson doesn’t know me because my daughter has made this separation. Totally dysfunctional in every way. But I’m over it. I don’t care. I did care, when no one did. Now I don’t care, either. Fuck it. I’ve fulfilled writing two books so far on the Diary of Organized Stalking where everything is coincidences, noise, agitation, synchronization. Pathetic biography is what it is. It’s embarrassing to be this person. I loathe this series. I’ll gladly take depression than to read this fucking book again.

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