J’en ai marre

I skipped April, it seems. Last year I spent the month try­ing to write poems (I’m actu­al­ly ok with quite a few of them) and house hunt­ing. This year I tried to keep it togeth­er man­ag­ing work, home school­ing, and the gen­er­al malaise extreme­ly low amounts of com­pas­sion­ate human con­tact and periph­er­al­ly spi­ral­ing poten­tial death engen­ders in the mind of a sin­gle father.

Final­ly got around to get­ting all the ingre­di­ents nec­es­sary to do some linocut print­ing. Now I just need more prac­tice at draw­ing and carving.

<J’en ai marre> basi­cal­ly means “I’m fed up”. Pret­ty decent start for not hav­ing done a linocut since I was in ninth grade 25 years ago. The iris was a gift to my mom for Moth­er’s Day.

If there’s one thing I’ve come to grips with in these last few weeks it is that no one is going to look out for me, and no one wants me to look out for them. This is a sad place to be — because it smells like the same kind of place that men’s rights activists and incels come from. At least now I can use the pan­dem­ic as an excuse for why I don’t make friends or go on dates.

I usu­al­ly learn the wrong lesson.