Self-loathing is my only full-time job, and when I look in the mirror (if I can bring myself to do that), I only see a frazzled, scraggly-haired and grey-faced Muppet who is better off going back to Jim Henson's Creature Shop reject bin than getting up and doing anything productive.
What to do, what to do.
It seems that writing is the only thing that salves my dereliction, both inside and out. There has always been something restorative to me about the stream of consciousness flow, the weight of days or weeks of built-up emotions leaves from my fingertips as they tap the keyboard. So many times I write and then look back and think, "That made absolutely no damn sense." And then I feel ashamed or embarrassed at my maudlin show of emotion and delete the post, which is silly because no one really reads them anyway. I think what I am getting at is that when it comes down to it, I don't do this for anyone but myself. I never have. As self-involved as this will sound, I believe I was born to write, in some capacity, and the best things I have written have not been churned out under the pressure of a whizzing-by deadline, but in random moments of inspiration. I wish everyone could know an outlet for their troubles like I know mine. In the future I only wish to be less afraid of posting what is really inside my heart, lest someone make light of my earnestness and cause me to retreat into blogging hermit-dom.
The scariest part is the next part. Hitting "post" and sending it all off into the ether of the interwebs. Of course, it's not nearly that serious. But for a shy girl like myself it can set off another anxiety attack, the kind that the post just written had probably alleviated. Double-edged sword, no? Yes? Ah well, it doesn't really matter.
Writing feels good. Writing makes me feel good, even if what I write is utter shit. And that's that. Now excuse me while I get out of my own head and watch Ugly Betty on Netflix.