Yet again, i've come to start painting something, anything and found that once again, I can't paint. It isn't a lack of will, i'm once again innept and this isn't a new thing. I'm growing really tired of this feeling, the feeling that my brother, with his contempt for my attempts at pretty much everything, may actually be right and I do infact suck.

I'm so tired of this, it's untrue.

In other news, I think I now have a job, not that I really want it: if my references come through favourable, I'll be starting work as a night-porter at a local hotel within the week. The fact that it's nights, killing off even the CHANCE of interacting with people should i manage to slip the bonds of depressed, lonely apathy, makes it seem really shitty.

I wouldn't mind so much if I had actually been given a legal choice on the matter but between the government informing me that they'll strip me of my dole if i don't take it and my parents constantly informing me that we'll be alright financially [NOTHING on the earth is going to make me feel more guilty...] means that i really don't have a choice in the matter.

Add to that the fact that i'm now questioning why I delude myself into thinking that the nigh tortuous process of producing my shitty artwork was enjoyable and missing it right up to the point where i come to try something new and suck like a cheap whore and you have one unhappy person right now. I'm sure Callum would tell me that it's my own fucking fault.

Thom