Sigh.
Home, finally. I've decided I won't take any jobs in San Francisco for less than five hundred dollars; my body just can't take the stress. When I'm doing something that isn't right for me, each one of my cells seems to scream in a chorus of warning. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I don't. I was attempting to do a favor for a woman whose art I respect totally, and who had done me the honor of asking me to participate in the creation of some of her art. I spent the entire day preparing for it, I invested money we don't have into it, and in the end, it still wasn't sufficient preparation, which is circumstantial. I didn't have all the information I needed, and I wasn't demanding enough of it. This is the third time this has happened in the past year, and it frightens me that three times makes a reputation. I can't help it; I'm trying. I don't know exactly what my limits are. I need a checklist. I need a contract. I need a rider. I've been fighting it for years, but I'm a "special needs" person, and I've got to have what I need around me, or I'm useless. I'm learning.
I never said I wasn't hard-headed.
I never said I wasn't hard-headed.