cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There is not a context within which for me to continue to exist. Yeah, it's just more of the same. Alex barely responding to texts, with her girlfriend looking over her shoulder as the excuse. The good Lindsay not putting any effort into her appearance yet affectionately showing up for dates. Us not having sex because she lives with her ex-husband. The whole fucking family is going to be here on Saturday. My very nice sister, her husband (who looks and acts like a friendly version of R1chard Spencer's crowd and also lived in Alexandr1a while Spencer was there) and their two little kids will be there, as well as my asshole brother and his wife and their two kids, the younger of which might turn out all right and the 11 year old who is basically a badly socialized little asshole. And both of my parents, and both of my kids, and my daughter's very nice fiancee. Of course I am cooking dinner or late lunch for everyone over an open campfire. I am grinding the meat and making burgers from scratch, cooked over an applewood fire. My son is making duck egg vanilla custard from scratch and also potato salad. Alex should be here for this, but of course she is still utterly retarded on the relationship front. The good Lindsay hates her parents so probably does not feel that she is missing out on anything. My birthday is in the next few days. I really fucking hope that this thing on Saturday is not supposed to be a birthday party. One on which I slave over a hot fire for hours, and probably my ex-wife will be there, and I will just be completely sad the whole time and wish that I was dead. I have only ever had one real birthday party in my life. When I turned 22. I am making such shitty money right now. Barely surviving. SPIN does not pay their invoices when they are supposed to. Fuck them. They are a month late on my latest piece. The bookstore pays shit. I stay at least 30 minutes after close every day and get nothing for it. Grubhub is a nightmare grind. There are no jobs in my fields now. Journalism jobs have been wiped out. Science and tech communications jobs have been erased by ChatGPT. Not that any jobs at companies I would have wanted to work for have been replaced by ChatGPT, but thousands of other have been, so the refugees are all looking for anything they can get. The kinds of jobs I'm interested in that had 150 applicants on LinkedIn a year ago now have literally over 2,500. I am completely fucked in terms of working in science communications or quantum computing. I have no apparent path to any job or paycheck that will provide enough income to pay the rent for a basic two bedroom apartment for myself and my son. There is no room in the world for me. Anything that I do, anything that I am good at. Comprehending scientific information and communicating it in terms that most people can understand, writing fascinating magazine features, doing deep-diving historical research, reinventing a 49 year old bookstore and organizing it and fixing everything and cleaning it; nothing that I do is worth the basic subsistence that is required to have a home and buy groceries and gas. The world is telling me that it has no use for me and that there is no room for me to be alive within it. The monthly budget math does not want me to exist. I don't see anything to look forward to. This is not going to get better. I don't know why I am still here. There is not a context within which for me to continue to exist. 3:54 a.m. - 2023-07-28 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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