Sometimes, revision has all the symptoms of a dead-end relationship going through its death throes. Nothing I do brings any sort of satisfaction, let alone joy. My story sits there in tears, milking those tears for all they're worth, going on and on about oh, you don't love me, why do you want to change me into something I'm not? And I'm sitting here, frustrated as rabbit with no dick, going on and on about how oh, if you loved me you'd change your goddamn ways and stop being such a rancid piece of suck. And we both sit here, cutting away at each other because there isn't any other way forward. Things only ever go downhill from here. I can't break up with the story. That's more hassle than I can stomach.
This is fury. I need to fuck or fight.
Right. Cup of tea then.