Mope. Mope. Mope. Actually, just very tired, feeling a little overwhelmed by work at the moment, lots of little piddly things to do and absolutely no motivation to do it. Leaving in a few hours, time to get cracking and couldn't care less.
A new romance/hot sex/sexy friend/all of the above is looming on my horizon. She's bi, married, has a girlfriend with a non-exclusive contract, and huge tracts of land.. Luscious. Very interesting personality, very intelligent, really cute, nice legs. Can't wait to see her - um - nekkid.
Going camping at Assateague Island today with a couple of sons, couple of friends. Should be pretty good times. I am so tired!
Anyway, I'm definitely going to art school this fall, one evening a week, I think. A second evening at Schuler's is only $250 more but I don't know if I can swing the money or the time.
I really do want to do it, just - well, just afraid. Afraid of success, not of failure. Afraid of the commitment to my art. Afraid of the pain in my heart from finding out I was wrong, all these years, that I coulda been a contender, Charlie. That I have what it takes to be an artist. Failure to have it would only confirm what I suspect. Which would be so easy to deal with. Not good enough. Not talented enough. Not driven (I know that one, if I was driven, quitting art school wouldn't have happened.) enough. Not creative enough. So - this one's for me, just for me, no one else has to comment, I don't care. I suspect that had I not been MPD, not undergone so much damn trauma, I would have finished art school, because - I would have been a different person altogether.