Getting old, getting famous, getting tired

First off, my birthday is on monday. I will be thirty-three years old. Hitting my stride, I think. Though I was trying to figure out how long it had been since I had done certain things: wrote first story with some thought of getting published (three years), lived in Chicago (fourteen years), owned this jakcet (seventeen years). Seventeen. Jesus, I'm pretty sure it's out of style by now. But it's an old army surplus summer weight. I wore it the first night I got drunk, the night after the Christ School game my senior year. Walked around Craddock's apartment with a budweiser in the in the cargo pocket, then stood in the kitchen and passed around a bottle of southern comfort they kept in the freezer. Yeah.

Secondly, I got another rewrite request from Interzone. I am both happy and sad. I love the magazine, and I love working with Jetse. I would, however, like to be good enough that I can write the story correctly the first time through. That's part of my perfectionist instinct coming out. A learning process, I suppose. Something I'll pick up in time. And looking back at the last couple months, I'm overwhelmed at how well things are going. If I buckle down and turn this story into something IZ is willing to buy, that'll be a fourth sale in as many months.

Finally. Tired. I don't want to go into all of it, but my job is getting ridiculous. It's worse than nepotism around here. It's like we intentionally reward incompetence. How do you get ahead? You don't do your job. You spend your days talking fantasy basketball with the boss, listening to jam band music and scouring the internet for really bitchin' speakers. You dress like a homeless person. During the production meeting yesterday, it was pointed out that we were *days* behind on schedule. Why? my boss asked. Because X isn't doing his job. Duh. So boss flipped out and blamed everyone else for...fuck. I don't want to explain it. These people are just shit. Let's leave it at that.