Pained

So my question is this:

Why am I torn?

I should just sit back, write books, look for some impressionable, ultra hot chippie with good lingeristic fashion sense and settle down to a life of pleasant ego massage.

Is this an option for yours truly?

Hell yes!

Is this the option that will be exercised by yours truly?

Hell no!

(this is where I start talking to myself with varied pronouns. I notice these watershed moments. We notice them. All of us. Do not fear me. Fear HIM).
"So... Instead of living life like Byron on Viagra, you are going to return to America and resume a life of anguished moping around?"
"...uhmmmm... You make it sound so stupid."

On an unrelated note, I went to Ikea today with my sister and my niece. She is exactly like her mother. She stalks the other babies, making them insecure about themselves by being more cute than her overmatched opponent, thereby displacing them with the target mother. She is like a machine. I occasionally saw a likely target and launched her in that direction, sort of like a Fire and Forget missile of cute giggling and adorable phrases.

I am all done with my novel. What am I supposed to do now? I am a wee bit frightened at this point - ok, so maybe I send it out and it gets REJECTED. I have a fragile ego. I don't like rejection. I go from thinking it SUCKS HORRIBLY to thinking it will be a fetish masterpiece of the age. I suspect it will be neither, but I am an all or nothing sort of person. Haha, Freud would have loved my last line - I first wrote ALL FOR NOTHING, then deleted the F. What the hell does this mean? I have no idea.