One of my problems in life is that I have no sense or natural expectation that hard work and quality will in any way be rewarded or even appreciated. Rather, I expect just the opposite. I’m not sure why that is.

The squeaky wheel may get the grease, but the protruding nail gets the hammer. What combination of neglect and abuse foundationed the notion in me that I am a nail and not a wheel?

Why do I identify more with Van Gogh or H.P. Lovecraft than, say, Picasso or J.K. Rowling? Those giants of their craft who died utterly unappreciated and unrewarded speak more to my expectations of my place in this world than any dream of fantastic recognition and success.

“Just be yourself and do what you love” is just as much a recipe for madness and dismal failure as it is for success. It depends on what you are and what you love. Some people do not fit. But perhaps under all the sedimentary layers of garbage and filth in me lies a being that the world will rejoice in seeing.

Perhaps not, though.

Either way, though, I push on. What else is there to do?

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