Wishing my bank balance and I could go back in time a few months because then I’d be anticipating a wonderful fortnight in Ohio-ville. What am I currently anticipating? Dental treatment, the prospect of sleeping a lot every day until the fucking antibiotics I’m on stop cunting my body and mind about, therapy sessions that currently only serve to amplify what a pointless, fucked up human being and waste of oxygen I am.
I am allowed to use the cunt word and to be super miserable in my blog. Nobody fucking reads it. Nobody listens to my music, nobody reads my blog: the two key areas of self-identity for me, music and writing, are of zero relevance to others in the world. Ordinarily I don’t care that much as I get most of my enjoyment from making the music and doing the writing but it strikes me that my sense of self must be entirely out of touch with how the rest of the world sees if there are so few hits on the commodified results of my creative process.
And it’s a short walk from that realisation to wondering what else I’m wrong about in terms of my self-image. Maybe my notion that I’m not a complete bastard is wrong? Maybe my hope that I am a compassionate, worthwhile member of my society is wrong? Maybe I’m a self-obsessed fucktard who does nothing anyone yet still expects the world to owe him something?
Ah the fragile ego of the pointless. Oh the tragic irony of bleating on about it in a blog nobody reads. I’m sick of being me and I’m mostly sick of life. Please remember not to dance too hard on my grave, it’s the best chance of restful sleep I’m ever likely to get. Unless I go straight to hell.