It's that kind of day...

...and it has gotten more aggravating since my earlier bout of complaining.

I went to visit the photog and -- at last! -- pick up some material relevant to the actual story I was supposed to write, came home and found I could salvage the first two paragraphs (roughly 100 words out of 2000) as written. Essentially, while I can pick out a fact here or there from the rest, it's all junk now.

Worse, this is for a client who is one of the most irritating to deal with. Checks are slow in arriving, communication is sporadic and, frankly, the editor -- who, like all editors, considers himself an expert on everything that might appear in his magazine -- is a mindless shitweasel who probably can't tie his shoelaces without outside help. He never noticed the major discrepancies between photos and text.

So I dug into the work again, only to be distracted by the arrival of the mail. No checks. More important, no checks from this particular magazine, which I have been expecting for at least two weeks.

That, my friends, brought the whole mess to a screeching halt. Maybe I can pick up on that article tomorrow. Maybe.

This is a dangerous situation for me. I have made promises as far as writing and delivering articles, but promises made to me -- mainly involving payment for the work -- have not been kept. It's a one-way street, and not just with this one publication. I give, I'm promised a return, and don't get it. When I question this situation, I get mild hostility combined with wide-eyed innocence.

PARENTHETICAL WHILE-I'M-COMPLAINING THOUGHT: This mess reminds me of a woman I knew recently....

What I feel like doing is telling all these creeps to take their magazines and perform unnatural acts with them. But I won't. There are no alternatives for me right now to swallowing my pride and anger and cranking out more words.

And I have this worthless, unrewarding habit -- or so it seems when I compare my attitude to those of many others in my work and personal lives -- of being honest and doing what I promise to do.

Not tonight, though.

I'm going to do something I rarely allow myself to do these days: I'm going to dive into a nice deep pool full of Jim Beam.

Only for this evening, though.

I've had enough. And, sadly, the only socially acceptable outlet available to me is knocking back enough bourbon to dull, if not blot out, all my negative feelings.