Fuck James Frey. Fuck MFA programs that think charging $50k for a degree that leaves its students so innocent and lamb-like in their naivete concerning the very industry that degree was meant to prepare them to take part in that people like Frey know damn well that the MFAs are who you hit first when you want to scam a writer. Fuck the $50k MFA. Fuck Cooks Source and fuck the dogpile that ensued just because for once it was so completely clear who the bad guy was. Fuck hating on Nanowrimo and speed writing in general and backpedaling when people considered "real writers" admit to starting out through Nano (as I did).
Fuck the new Cancer or Molestation? menu at the TSA. Fuck my brain for adding cake or death to the end of that sentence. Fuck not even having to show photo ID to get on a train but being treated like a criminal for flying.
Fuck constantly refreshing my Amazon rating. Fuck worrying, constantly, about books and book doings and talking endlessly about The Industry until I feel like Tim Robbins in The Player. Fuck being a well rounded person who doesn't just talk about her job all the time.Fuck feeling like I should be further along, like I should have done more, done better, done sooner. Fuck comparing myself to other writers, fuck comparing myself to some invisible measuring stick, fuck comparing myself to the person myself thought I should be. Fuck my procrastinating habits and fuck all the things I haven't finished yet.
Fuck the workplace filters that keep people from reading my blog because I use the word fuck but let in Perez Hilton. Fuck everyone who will say this is a super negative entry and I should lighten up and not take things so seriously, because everyone needs to say fuck it once in awhile and taking things seriously is like what I do professionally.
Fuck feeling like shit about my weight. Fuck avoiding looking at Facebook photos people upload because I don't want to see my own face. Fuck reading gossip blogs that hate on women's bodies constantly and yet I never stop reading them, or stop feeling like crap because my weight makes me a failure no matter what else I ever do with my life. Fuck knowing that it matters so damn much whether or not I'm pretty in the world of cons and corsets and sparkly and shiny, and that if I were a male writer I really could say fuck it and mean it and the mattering would be so much less. Fuck feeling like every time someone sees me in person they're disappointed.
Fuck having to deal with other people's bullshit financial decisions even though I had nothing to do with them. Fuck being cryptic about crap I don't want to share online. Fuck not being able to share everything online. Fuck apologizing for my opinions, fuck having them in the first place. Fuck my ducks for getting out of their pen in the middle of the night so I had to chase them around in the mud and fuck googling for reviews and fuck everything but writing and love and my silly dogs and cats and Maine and autumn and pumpkins and Thanksgiving. Those things can stay.
Fuck it all, fuck it repeatedly. I want to watch Jem and eat curry and put on my earmuffs and not hear any of it. I want a cup of tea and some damn snow up in here because what is 55 degrees in late November all about? I want everyone to stop acting like it's Christmas until the day after Thanksgiving at the EARLIEST. I want a good movie in the damn theaters and I want a PEPPERMINT MOCHA and for GLEE TO STOP SUCKING. I AM UNREASONABLE AND I DON'T CARE.
But seriously, and most thoroughly of all, fuck James Frey.