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I'm weary of worrying about my income. The housing market has gone to absolute shit. No one can get financing to buy the company's houses, so the company can't buy anymore houses for me to work on. It's the holiday season, I can easily go find a soul sucking corporate job somewhere, but I prefer to work with people I know, people I've sat around the dinner table with, people who I've tripped and smoked and drank and laughed and cried and argued with. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate to have an oppourtunity to make a few dollars while I find something more permanent, listing things on eBay for people without the time or courage to try it themselves. But instead of taking advantage of this oppourtunity fully, I'm messing around on Ether and other sites in between listings. I write from the time I get home until I go to bed, and my purse is full of scraps that say things like 'dimestore epiphanies aren't worthless, they're worth a dime' and 'green eyes flecked with gold and brown, eyes like an artistic distillation of early autumn'. Why can't I fully devote six-eight hours to keeping myself fed and clothed and warm and altering my consciousness? I need to load that stuff up and bring it over here, and post some of it, and ask for feedback.