I had forgotten how uncomfortable writing can be. The editor did a great job of pointing out everything I did wrong, but seeing dozens of comments on my piece feels like being pummeled and I haven't been able to shake that feeling entirely. If I keep at it it'll eventually be good, but between now and then is a chasm of self-doubt and frustration.
The book I'm reading, The Lonely City, is lukewarm at best. It's a third autobiography, a third art analysis and a third George Packer-esque biographies about artists. Sorry, but I don't really care much about what the color green represents in Hopper's Nighthawks. It doesn't help that I haven't been feeling very social myself either. I can't relate to any of the colleagues at my thesis-internship-place much and I haven't been able to see my peers much because I am now working on my thesis full-time.
One of my friends can't come along the road trip, so now we're splitting the costs over 4 instead of 5, which means that we might have to change plans to keep costs down. Another friend really wants to come along but can't pay for it. I'm considering chipping in, but money and his independence is a bit of a sensitive issue.
There's a bunch of other stuff frustrating me that I won't bore you all with, but I wanted to get this off my chest.