That's what I feel like now. When I think about my poverty, my dependence on a family I don't know, maybe I don't even belong to, my choices. I can't feel the speed of the earth pulled around the sun and I'm falling through time toward my inevitable destiny. Good? Bad? What will they say at my funeral and can I control that?
I know what I wanted. I wanted to make a living doing what I love. I decided that in college. I wanted to talk about concepts, stories, philosophy, and by God, support myself with that. I didn't expect to be married. I thought I'd die alone like the rest of us. But with that development, I still want to draw comics all my life. Why can't I be one of those people who get to do what they love for a living?
I. I. Me. Me.
Why can't we all?