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Stories in this Fandom are works of fan fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Recognized characters, events, incidents belong to Marvel Comics <br>
Running for Home - 3. August 1, 2021
August 1, 2021
Ugh, fuck my life! I need to find a cheaper apartment. I can’t afford to live in this place by myself anymore – he was contributing a little bit, it’s true, at least at the beginning. Don’t know why I didn’t immediately move out after he ditched, though. Bastard. Why the fuck did I stay here, anyway? I’m just pissing away the little I’ve managed to save. There’s nothing here that I really wanted. It’s just a place. Just a place where I wanted to live. Where I could see myself living. Not my fault that I’m not good enough. Dom can go fuck himself.
Seriously, though, I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel now just to make rent. Even wrote a short piece for a trashy syndicated rag. I can’t get any work from the good journals anymore. They’re either bored with my perspective or God only knows what else. Ugh, maybe I’m just not controversial enough anymore. I don’t fucking know. The royalty cheques from my novels just won’t cover everything anymore. They used to be good, but… damn. It’s been four years since my publisher bought one of my good novels. No one reads transrealist gothic romance novels five years after they get published, though. They just disappear into oblivion, sorta like Pyro did after Freedom Force disbanded. Fucking government. At least I finally got that pardon they kept dangling along in front of us. Of course, that was after I was ditched in that living hell in Iraq. They didn’t give me any other reasonable compensation for it, of course, once I’d recovered. They just sneered and told me I should be grateful that my record would be wiped clean and I could get a job, and maybe one day they’d even let me get a passport and be able to actually travel outside of this godforsaken country. I should be grateful that it wasn’t a lie, that I do have a passport now. I could go back to Australia again on a quest to come to grips with my maternal roots, if I could afford it. I haven’t been there since I was a kid. Maybe I’d find some new inspiration if I went. Maybe find something real to write about again. Yeah, right. We all know that’s never going to happen.
But yeah, I’m fucked. No money. But I refuse to live in some cheap ass, rat infested hole again. I’m going to be thirty-seven years old in April, and I’m not putting up with that shit. I’m not my flat-scan, trailer-trash parents. I’m better than them. Better than they ever would have been. I will not live like those lazy entitled social security-addicted scum. I refuse. I will never stoop that low.
Fuck, I should break down and do it, just write another mindless drug-store romance novel on a ghost-writing contract. Just write it, bang it out quick. They were happy with my work last time I did one, even if I thought it was trash. It only took me a month, too. A month of writing hell, barely sleeping and only really stopping when I remembered I needed to eat or go outside and clear my head for a few minutes. It would suck, but it would at least get me some new cash flow, right? It would be fucking pennies, but also easy as pie. So what if it’s not what I want to write, so what if it has no meaning and no point other than to give some bored housewives something to get off on while they wait for their laundry to finish. I should just sit down and write some stupid romantic crap again, lying through my teeth the whole time. Make the guy all confident, hot and heroic, seemingly flawless, but has a messy secret he needs to hide that keeps him from letting himself fall in love. Make the girl a subversive, tempermental idealist that just can’t keep out of trouble, no matter how good her intentions are. They meet and it’s fireworks. Some random drama about a misunderstanding happens, a wedge that drives them so very far apart, but a fluke of destiny brings them back together. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, and the world suddenly starts to work the way it should for them.
The fucking end.
- 19
Authors are responsible for properly crediting Original Content creator for their creative works.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Stories in this Fandom are works of fan fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Recognized characters, events, incidents belong to Marvel Comics <br>
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