How ironic?

How ironic is it to be a writer who doesn't want to write anymore?

I feel verbally dehydrated. I've given all I had, and more, and I have dug from reserves I didn't even know were in me. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of being everything and doing everything. I'm tired of editing my own work so that I will not be the one to make an editor scream at 11.30pm when her eyes come into contact with the words "Between you and I..."

It's the 9th year since my first paid job. I have had my pieces chopped into half to make way for ads, "sold" the right to songs into which I had poured heart and soul for the princely sum of 1 ringgit each, and been told to give my pieces "more sparkle", even if it means "less truth".

And I am sick of it all.