Query on, my wayward son!
I'm so tired of staring at this fucking letter and the bastard children it spawned during the rewrites. 

The entire process has driven me batshit. I'm a story teller, not a pitch woman. If I could sum up all 94,000 in a one line stellar pitch I'd go work as a marketing guru making better money than I currently get.

Which brings me to my "day" job. Statistics pisses me off. Chicago weather pisses me off, the lack of clean laundry I have pisses me off and I may have to face the fact that I'm a miserable person.

Also, don't ever text me to discuss some extreme drama that may or may not affect your life in horrible financial, political, romantic or emotional ways and then tell me it's best I don't know specifics when I care enough to ask.

The ovaries do not signify emotion connections. Ever. Don't pretend they automatically mean I care about your bullshit.

I need icons on this journal.