I guess I need to ask myself whether I care what people think of me. And the unfortunate answer is yes, yes, and hell yes.
There are some people who are trying to live well, be happy, and not screw anyone over in the process.
And then there are some people who employ a vicious fascination with other people’s lives. I’m scared of these ones. Like mad dogs. When do you get old enough to lose your fangs? My life is not meat. I wish I was strong enough to bite back.
I feel so off-balance and helpless. Like everything is just happening to me and I can’t even react in a meaningful way.
Here’s the thing about gossip and why I don’t like it. It’s like I was out dancing in the rain for three hours and you’re telling everyone I broke into the pool to swim when (let’s get real here) I haven’t been near a public swimming facility in years. I’m ashamed that misplaced verbosity can make me feel anything, even anger.
Even if I could separate out the ruthless from the ones who just don’t care, I’d still be left wondering whether there was any fundamental difference between the two.
It’s raining and I wish I was outside wandering the streets of Fargo for an unbiased shoulder to rant to instead of sitting on the kitchen floor trying to write things.
oh mannn tonight killed my writer’s block. good. I don’t care about pain and betrayal if it gives me something to pour into the ink.
(wrote this at 5-6 AM but forgot to post it so posting it now)