Ramblings of a Desiccated Mind

Bizarre . . . a fellow can close himself off from the world, infringe on no one except for the occasional embarrassing professional row, cocooned, preparing, warming up, psychologically preparing to change after a decade of isolation and various forms of heartbreak and self-mutilation, come out of it (sort of) poised to make a believer out of himself, poised to, finally, take a stand, something he was never able to do, never imagined he'd have to for allowing childhood baggage to bog him down for two decades without killing himself, only to have people's two dimensional preconceptions forced on him when he tries to enter their world. I never wanted your world. I still don't. There's no good reason for me beyond my occasional graceful turn of phrase and my ability to, occasionally, describe something truly horrifying.

That's a lot of fucking responsibility.

I was really grateful to my pal who turned me on to the Live Journal because it's easy, and it allows for me to do something I wasn't able to do at the website, which was, more often, deal with how the world is shaping up in my eyes. I hate it here. I hate most of you. And I get to fan out that self-obsessed damage in this place. I don't usually just cry about how sad I am, I try to look at things. I try to take pieces of the real problem and illustrate them through my own ash colored glasses. I need to do this.

You don't have to read about it.

And the last one who needs reminding about his responsibilities is me.

I get it.

I know where I'm at.

And it ain't swimming.

What about when the work is done, where will you be then?

Telling me to rewrite.