Ok, I admit it. I'm shallow. And mercenary.
I write because something inside compels me to write. But I can't stop expecting other people to read it. And worse yet hoping that someday I'll be paid to write. It's a terrible habit. Not because there's anything wrong with being paid to write but because I am clearly deluded in that hope.
I've had one of those moments of clarity. Oh how I hate them. I thought back to all the interactions I have on Facebook and G+ and Twitter and I realised how few of them are conversations. I'm not talking with people or to people. I'm talking at them. And that's pathetic.
So if anyone is reading this because you clicked a link by accident or out of politeness then I'm sorry. Feel free to fuck off. I'm really not expecting anyone to read this. This is the equivalent of shouting obscenities in an empty theatre – pointless but strangely liberating.
There was going to be a bunch of self pitying bullshit here but I deleted it. I can't work out if I'm learning to self edit or just chickening out. As with so many things it feels like there's two of me arguing about it. One of me wants me to man up, or woman up or whatever and do the right thing and meet my responsibilities and try harder and next time get it right. That one thinks that if I keep trying eventually I'll get better at stuff. The other one is just looking for an escape. That one just wants the most graceful, least damaging way out of existence with the minimum of collateral damage.
I have one voice whispering that I need to eat right and clean things and work out and read more books on child rearing and stand up for myself and my children and finish things and get published. The other voice thinks that slitting my throat would be a better plan. Or maybe I should just stop eating all together. Or if I stop taking all my medication how long would it take me to die? Or maybe death is too good for me. Maybe I should just run away and live on the streets or otherwise remove myself from everyone I care about before I do any more damage.
Ooh look. The self pitying bullshit is back. And that's me. I can't even enjoy being miserable.