I am finished with the second edits of my first real (“real”) novella. I want to set it on fire. Throw it out the window. Die without it. I hate it. It’s wretched. It’s such a reckless reflection of so many things I don’t believe in. It’s not me at all. Why did I write it. All of it. There is so much of it. It’s all so stupid. Who would want to read that. Does it make it any sense? It doesn’t make any sense. Not at all. It is a whim on the tip of butterfly wing, about to get blown out with all the other specks of dust that don’t matter at all. I am going to get blown away with it, me in my little life, with my little words, and my little book. It will feel good. I want to shit this thing out of me like a disease and be done with it forever. Flush it down, watch it wash away. Let it be someone else’s problem. Let someone else sanitize it and put back into the drinking water. So that it can poison me again, and I can die all over one more time.