He said I have to persevere even though my environment isn't the most nurturing, and he kept trying to be my cheerleader but I just kept crying and crying.

I hate my brain. I hate art. I hate knowing that this is my thing and if I don't do it I'll be miserable forever. But I'm miserable and low on funds right now while most of my non-artist friends have good jobs and health insurance and no loans, so what am I supposed to do? I figured if I was happy with other things in my life it could buoy me through the sad career times...but I'm not happy. SexGod is gone, one of my good friends moved away (so I only have 2 friends I feel comfortable sharing things with, and they're very busy), I can't get any creative work and my writing looks awful when I reread it. I've been crying at work for the last month at least. People keep asking me what's wrong but I can't tell them because I don't want special treatment. Even so I'm leaving work early or calling in sick because the stress makes me ill. I'm unhappy—and the solution to that is to turn towards this near-impossible dream and throw myself at it?! Fuck you, art. Fuck you and your fickleness!

In conclusion, I am a tortured artist and you should all feel bad for me.