just another fucking day in polyesterland, sometimes I hate being me

   at this point, im sick of this shit.  I worked on this graphic/image last night.. its supposed to be a page in Polyester.. its supposed to be a picture that coincides with the theme of this work, but FUCK.. ive been at this for going on two days now.

   im the type of person that is constantly critiquing my work, and my life, and what ive accomplished at this point, or how the image looks compared to the other images in this work, compared to the other images in all my other books, compared to the videos on my Youtube channel, compared to the artwork that im into in general.

   I imagine the Iroquois, or the Pawnee or the Sioux or something, I imagine them kinda looking at all the vegetation, and their crops, and their corn, and their weed, or whatever else they grew, and just kinda being pissed off because of all of a sudden their crops became their life.. shit, their crops WERE their lives.. the crops meant the future of their village, or their camp or whatever they called it.  And in my mind I sort of equate artwork (the creation of) as a sort of competitor to gardening.. as in.. I dont have a garden right now, but this is the next best thing, if not better than gardening.. working on artwork I mean.  But now im at this point where the book has grown to be so deep, or so large, or something like that... its become so personal now that I feel like its my duty, or my responsibility to finish this thing.  It's a horrible feeling.   

   maybe it takes a certain type of person to sit here, without any friends, without any contact without any plans for the rest of the day, or week, or two months but to finish this piece that I started, this fucking BOOK.  im talking hundreds of pages, thousands of words, names, subplots, research... its like im throwing away a combined three years of my life just to complete a few books that nobody even really reads.. work that nobody is really inspired by, work that few people get into.  work that challenges very few thinkers... maybe im just having a moment, or a few hours of just like "fuck, why am i doing this shit?".. If I was a guitar player.. by now I wouldve smashed a few amps, I wouldve gotten into some bad jams at some important gigs.. I wouldve told some fans to fuck off, I wouldve showed up to some shows completely wasted, and unable to sing.. I just think about dudes like Da vinci, or Rembrandt, or Caravaggio, or David.. people, dudes that spent YEARS on one piece.. commissioned by a king or something to paint a ceiling, and take half a decade of their life in some alien city, working tirelessly, and being bugged by their students, not getting laid, not eating properly.. all that shit.  the life of a failing artist.  it fucking sucks, and right now, in my newly purchased room in Lake Elsinore.. im doing just that.. wondering why the fuck did I make a decision to sign on for this, and why the fuck does it have to be polyester.. im just at a point where I want to scrap the thing and take up something new.. like selling my car and taking all my money and just moving somehwere else, somewhere far where I dont have to think about this bullshit