Wednesday, September 30, 2015


I'm going to be petulant for a minute. Nobody reads my shit.  This makes me feel like my shit isn't interesting or relevant to to anyone but me, which makes me feel self-serving, shallow and impotent.

I keep making decisions that I keep changing.  "Okay, I'm going to try harder." or "I'm not giving up."  But I'm tired and I'm old, so fuck it. I've made another decision.  I'm going to write for myself.

I just quit a writers group.  I told the facilitator, a friend, that I was only going to journal, but even Anne Frank has me beat on that.

I know, I know, I'm a sourpuss.  someone called me persnickety yesterday and you know what's funny about that?  I agreed.  I am persnickety.  Kind of like James Spader without talent or intellect.


The great thing about blogging, or journaling with no audience is that I I can write whatever I want, even curse like I do in real life (though I would like the sailor in me to find Jesus), and not worry about the grandkids, or anyone, reading it.  And,  I can avoid the criticism  by people whose only passion for writing is cowardly anonymous online bullying.

So, here I am, writing for an audience of one....feels very egotistical, but I'm convinced that it is more than that.  It's too desperate and needy, this writing thing.  I know, it's a deep-seated need to express myself, however, uninteresting and unrelatable that may be.  If I'm writing it, it must at least relate to me?

So, dear Carol, go to fuckin bed.  It's late.


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