Well, it turns out sitting in a cubicle for eight hours is not for me. And I thought proofreading, critiquing, fixing critiqued stories, submitting all over, studying grammar and syntax and reading and writing all the time was a butt-load of work. Of course they had me selling fucking magazines (techically racing schedules but you get the idea), which was impossible. No matter what you said to those people they weren't fucking buying. Which is fine. Some people are talented to do that and some people are talented at writing horror. In fact, anyone with a job is talented at something. (I'm going to get myself in trouble here; people will say strippers? Bunny ranch employees? YEAH.)
Now I'm faced with finding another job where my success doesn't depend on other people or going back to washing windows. Oh well, my novel will be done and I'll be ready to query agents by this summer or fall.
Hey, at least The Olympics are over! No more motherfucking curling!