Genetic Antagonist. 8/19/2021

I discovered that my uncle Deltron, whom I never met, is permanently in a home due to a stroke and a heart attack. My biological father, Toni had a stroke earlier this year but has since recovered. My maternal line is riddled with heart attacks and death: My mother and grandmother kicked the bucket in their forties due to defective hearts. 

I'm fucked.

I've been on keto for three weeks, edging out zero-sugar monsters. I used to drink them daily, but they have to go. I need to eat clean. I will switch beef for fish, with chicken as my staple meat. Heart-healthy and low-blood sugar-encouraging foods will be the center of the diet. 

I've been depressed before and wished for death, but that doesn't mean I want to have a stroke. That would suck.

I've been steady in the writing department, but now my brain is dead. It cluttered again. I wrote a thirty-page script for a writer's room, but it dissolved into the universe as we didn't do anything with it. The source project is being adapted for a feature, but it was a good writing exercise.  

I'm sad that I haven't written The Boy in the Shed in quite some time, and I say that with a heavy heart. So much disappointment.

See, I started writing the novella because I was done whoring over filmmaking. I want to tell stories, and that is all. Now, I'm back in the shitter. I'm a part of the writing team of Unity. Bad Films Pro is starting to back up, and I work full-time. I can't help but feel distracted. I'm trying to finish Reds, a personal film, and it's almost done; it truly is, well, a pure first draft of the new story structure, and I want to focus my attention on getting that done and start developing. Besides that, I want to write 500 words daily for TBITS, MINIMUM. It's not demanding, only a few hours before bed. I love that story and know I can gather an audience for it. I just need to finish it. 

Sigh.

What it must feel like to accomplish even the smallest of goals...