This is a bad entry. I'm tired.

In the past month, the question I've been most frequently asked is, "so what are you going to do now?"

I must say, this seems startlingly callous and not a little offensive. I know these people love me, and mean well, and it seems less loaded than "so are you seeing anyone?". I get that. But every time, it makes me angry and kind of hurt, like they don't have any idea who I am.

It's taken me a long time to get to the point where I can live in the moment, the thing that everyone's taking as immature irresponsibility. I've worked at it; it's something I chose philosophically. When someone says "plan for the future," my automatic internal response is "what future?"

The thing is, I've been unhappy for much more of my life than I haven't. I've been sold out on more times than I care to count -- betrayed, defrauded, blatantly lied to. Every single time I've invested my energy in something, it's let me down. All the good things in my life happened by accident instead of saving. Although it sounds like I'm exaggerating, I'm not. (Which, incidentally, is incredibly depressing.)

And so at this point when I've finally embraced the aesthetic my entire life has driven me toward, when I feel more mature, more congruent, more myself than I have in a long time, everyone thinks I am childish for not wanting to find a high-paying job with health insurance. People want me to do something brilliant -- and apparently novels, plays, and films don't count.

Please understand. . . The short term is all I ever have.