My husband is in the hospital today. Kinda wanna shake the shit out of the boy and remind him that's my place but—ya know—covid restrictions and all. I could have visited between 4PM (when my weekly meeting with my editor took place) and 8PM, but he declined. Stating: rest. For the both of us.

Fair. We needed a rest. Separately and together. His hernia operation two weeks ago seemed to go smoothly on the outset, but he's been in pain since. And agressive since. Going from the cared for, what with my barely functional body filter known as a lover, to the caregiver is challenging enough. While also being task I accept and take on with pride, facing it for half a month has driven me to a surprising place;

Apathy. Population me.

Now, do not misunderstand my poorly constructed sentences. I have extreme empathy for him, his medical situation, and frankly any living being in pain—especially my husband. The gigantic but you can see coming from a mile away, the true caviat is I am a reactionary asshole, and I respond to agression in kind. Regardless of its source. Regardless of knowing the cause of said aggression.

Basically, someone “comes at me” and I bring it. The fire and brimstone. The pain. Whatever imagery you care to invoke for yourself. I come ready to fucking fight when I'm challenged, and he's been providing that fight daily since his surgery.

Three days ago, he told me to drop dead. And the apathy set in.

I know compartmentalization when I experience it. I'm a master. It's not a bragging point, but a recognized feature of Haley. Bitch can give it, she can take it, and she can stack demons it that closet higher that you'd imagine possible. Stacking cash like Tetris would be better, but I am not Mulatto nor am I a Bitch from the Souf.

Song references aside, words matter. Words wound. And those words hurt, but they should have hurt more. The pressing question on my mind is, did I instinctively turtle so fast that the words missed me completely? Bouncing off dented armor erected through years of verbal abuse because people want to throw words around like they don't mean anything.

To me. A writer.

Words in the forms of broken promises. I'll never leave you that way has been fucking me up for years, but I actually spoke with my muse and I have some edge of resolution with her abandonment.

But at least she didn't tell me to drop dead. Considering my own love affair with specific ideations in my past, it's hard to believe anyone that loves me could say that. However, I know he loves me. I've simply got to come to terms with the fact he also instructed me to go die.

Simply.

Love always Haley -10:43 AM, March 31st, 2021

No longer. Five won't earn you dick. Literally. Not even a dick pic.

So, ask for ten. Inflation. No big deal. Pump up the offer.

But that got me to thinking about the time spent agonizing over the price point of my book. 14.99 for a paperback, I scoffed? Too high. But pricing it any less than 12.99 and I'd be paying them to print the book. I'd say this is due to the length, which technically that's true, but this entire conundrum existed – in my easily distracted mind – because of how little moetary value is assigned to art. Anyone asshole off the street will remind you art is subjective. Another will passionately declare we, as a society, require art to thrive. Neither one of those people is likely going to pay for a transformative piece of work in anything, but they'll shower you with hollow phrases and empty wisdom. Words. 'Cause, I mean, you write; so thats the most important concept out there. You're a word fucker, right? You're obsessed. They mean everything. More than money.

Yeah. Yeah, they do. Money is fleeting as fuck, but I still need it to keep my phone connected. To pay for power to charge it. Keep the internet running, enabling this post. Etc. Etc. More words.

So, why is it that society indoctrinates devaluing art? That this is what I do – this great beautiful, enviable thing – but it's not a “real job.” That I require an additional “day job” unless I'm in the top two percent of authors?

Fuck that noise.

Yes, I want you to read my work, but that's precisely what it is – this is my work. My God damned job. I'm a writer, and I'm going to make a living at it.

Considering I'm still alive, I technically am “making a living” at it, in the loosest terms possible. How about that shit?

Humbling, to say the least, but I still don't have a spare five spot to offer next time a favor's on my lips. Let's face it, even ten isn't likely to get me far.

So how about I ask you for $14.99 in exchange for my novel? It's not even a favor, it's a straight-up tranaction. 'Cause this is my job.

http://Bit.ly/FLWActOne

Love Always Haley -3:45 PM, March 21st, 2021

So am I, by that logic. 'Cause this isn't my thing, but here I am just the same. You can teach an old bitch new tricks. She just might whine about it and take a piss on the rug. But I don't piss on much any more, being that I am no longer an alcoholic. Hold your applause, please. No awards for sitting here with my hands wedged firmly under my ass for doing nothing, but I'm impressed. Perhaps surprised at my own fortitude. When I make my mind up, I can actually accomplish anything. Issue being, occasionally my mind makes up it's own and I'm simply a passenger along for that ramshackle ride.

But not today, bitch. Not today.

Love Always Haley 10:16 AM, March 20th, 2021