Autumn

I've read through the past entries of my blog, and golly gee, are they depressing, dark, and repetitive. So, as of now, I will no longer talk and rave and cry about my issues even if they are ripping at the seam, NO! I'm in therapy now, so that's where the issues will go. They'll be packed into a bag, not any ordinary bag but a bag of high quality, a Vuitton maybe. Gucci probably. They're still my issues, so they'll be treated with the respect they deserve, damnit! Then, when I arrived at my therapist, a lovely lady of Columbian descent with high cheekbones, I genuinely do not recall her name; I'll plop the bags onto her lap and say, "Here. My issues. Figure it out."

Let's see, some updates are in order, I imagine:

The filming of King Eddie was traumatic. What's a darker word for traumatic? Excruciating has a bit more pizazz, whereas traumatic is like saying you're depressed. Ok? Aren't we all? So, the filming of King Eddie was excruciating. On Sunday, when everyone left, when I was alone, boy oh boy, did I dissolve into the floor. I cried like an orphan in the darkness of their room, longing for a home and clinging to the last memory of their dead mother. Yes. It was that bad. 

The full feature is undergoing treatment, an excruciating surgical overhaul. A cut here. A slice there. The gut removed. The brain discarded. The gut re-inserted. I did enjoy the gut in previous drafts, but...What do they say? Kill your darlings. The gut is thrown out altogether. I think I lost the story again. Fuck. 

Let me tell you about my boy, Archie Moon. The new title: The Moon Saga-Book One: The Prince of Summer. What do ya think? I'm in love, no, I'm swooning. It's still a Western crime story with a dash, more of a splash of fantasy. How would Westeros be if they evolved past feudalism? It's rad. It's come a long way, and young Arhice, that boy, will save my soul. 

Autumn has arrived. 

But not in Florida. It's fucking gross in this swamp of horrors.