Pathetic Fallacy

It's been raining in LA for five whole days nonstop. The house is leaking, the dogs are stir crazy and restless, the rest of us just smoke cigarette after cigarette, drink coffee, wait for something to change. If you asked me if it was worth it - when I'm in the middle of writing everything else disappears, and it's worth everything. It's worth being broke and never having nice clothes and always borrowing money from people and turning down trips to the movies and ordering the starter in a restaurant the rare opportunity you can afford even that. It's worth trips to the foodbank and being humiliated by assholes and wishing you were anyplace else but here. It's worth self doubt and self hatred and the crazy inner monologue which never lets up until you distract it with words and characters. But when you can't get it right, it sucks worse than your overdraft, your cheating lover, your broken heart.

I was planning to go back to England for good in March, when Chips is allowed out the country. But now there's a big kerfuffle with a job which was definite and now has a lot of clauses which aren't in my favor. And I don't know if I can afford it because I just lost work worth about 20K USD. And really I'd just like a fairy godmother to swoop in, eliminate the debt, get my ass to England, find me someplace safe and dry to live for free for a while until I get on my feet, and let me write.

My pathetic fallacy is I always attribute human qualities, like pity, to inanimate objects, like fate.

It's still raining.