My brothers both graduated college.
I think they graduated with business degrees with accounting minors.
So I have no excuse.
I went to college for two years, I was a political science major in those two years. I had no intention of ever being an English major and i went back I still wouldn't be an English major.
The second semester of going to school i got really stressed out and wouldn't leave the house except to go to school. I kept freaking out, and got really depressed and was sent to a mental ward for a week.
I did good for another semester, and then the next semester I freaked out again and hid in New York City incognito sleeping in my car for several days and didn't return back to school that semester.
Then I tried to get help from the BVR, i can't remember what it stands for, but it helps people with disabilities to go to school for free and helps them get through school or something. I was going to get help because of my mental illness. But I was in the upswing of a bipolar attack and drove to Oregon to sleep in a hotel and fuck whores, and when they called I didn't care, but I don't know, when I'm really up and flying, i don't care about anything, and told them i didn't care.
So i missed my chance.
Then I stopped talking to my parents and lost all my chances at free money as a way to support myself.
So I just lived in Bernice's house reading books and going to work and writing books and getting weirder.
But I want to say this, and it must be understood.
While I am washing dishes or delivering pizzas it does not occur that anything is miserable about it. I like talking to the young females and looking at their asses, and I like the simplicity of the job, etc.
Like if I'm just walking around in Youngstown, i feel fine.
It only feels somewhat miserable when i see Dennis Cooper or Ned Vizzini two people who are considered good writers with books in stores, etc are talking about me in good terms. Then I feel like, "Why am I a poor dishwasher? What the hell is wrong with me."
Concerning though the idea that a writer does not need to suffer somewhat, i think is untrue.
All great writers have suffered in someway.
Suffering teaches the human to attack, to think harder, to strive more, to work more than the average person. It gives a person a feeling of desperation that is needed to make great art.