Till there was little feeling, please work with what is left

Yo.  What's up.  You know what I did?  I wrote a whole book.  I did.  It took me six months of some writing here and some writing there.  But I finished it.  The whole thing.

But...now what?  I have no idea.  I'd like some other people to read it but I'm afraid to know what they think.

Also, it will have a pretty limited audience.  It's m/m urban romance.  I made dude who sleeps next to me read it.  He said he likes it, but he loves me, so he would say that, wouldn't he?

But..I think it's pretty good, and I hate myself on good days.  So, that has to mean something, right?  (Actually, I don't hate myself anymore.  Not really.  But...I'm still pretty not awesome.  Just, not hating.  Little teeny tiny baby steps.  Maybe I won't sound like the rest of the internet by the time the internet is in our brain stems or something.)

But you know what?  I wrote a freaking book.  23 chapters.  Isn't that crazy?  It seems like it to me.  Also, I'm three chapters deep into the second book.  Which is weird because the first one isn't really a book, just twenty three chapters sitting on my google drive.

But...fuck.  I did something.  I finished something.