Finger Trapped

It’s time for me to give up any aspiration to well-crafted entries. Or brevity. Or coherence. Fuck it. Fuck perfect titles. Or any kind of meaningful title. Or tagging system. Or any attempt at writing some kind of “blog.” I’ve been doing this since before there was this, since before a million platforms or any platform… since before I even felt the need to drag it all online. When I write privately it becomes abandoned and lost. When I write publicly the same thing happens, but at a slower rate. I think that the final two years of college–both the instruction and the medication–ruined my spontanaity, my ability to write for myself so as to not go crazy.

Time to breathe again. To work it all out. To not work it out. To stop worrying about a hundred small irrelevant posts in a day or whether it counts as “starting again” if I haven’t written in weeks. I need to stop making sense. I do need to write. I’ve been going crazy. I cry too much. I resent too much. I haven’t done what I said I was going to do nearly 3 years ago.

I said that I was going to figure myself out so that my relationship with ALF doesn’t become like everything else in my life. I’m going to do something. I need to work through the anxiety this pregnancy is causing. I need to figure out the control. I need to face my fear of death and–

I need to talk to myself. It seems false and grandiose to do that publicly and that’s how I want to do it. Otherwise I write these mental letters to other people all of the time, and sometimes I write them “for real,” but it doesn’t translate into anything worth anything… but the tension just builds if I’m deliberately narrating to myself rather than writing without knowing what is going to be said. Without caring.

I need to do something or I’ll be back on the drugs. So here I am jumping in again. Ready to drown in a mountain of shit.