Thursday, November 6

Something in the Way of an Apology

I HAVE, I ADMIT, NOT been writing enough. I have always considered writing very similar to taking a shit: you absorb all these things in your day-to-day and at some point you have to get rid of them otherwise they become most uncomfortable. You cannot help but get rid of them. No effort is needed but to sit on the pot. Well, it appears recently – for many reasons – I have been unable to summon the energy required to sit on the pot.
The biggest reason, and certainly the only reason I feel like discussing, is that I have been working like crazy. For the past six weeks work has been like it never has before, so that when I come home I am able to do anything but enjoy a few beers before going to sleep, impotent am I to sit before my keyboard and bang anything out. Of course I think that I am no longer anything close to a writer and that I am a normal person and I may as well watch terrible comedies and grow obese.
(Also, I notice – and this is certainly something I am not proud to admit I notice – that back when I wrote in 2008, I received as many visitors to my blog in one morning than I do now in an entire month, and that, shamefully, is something that upsets me more than I care to acknowledge.
This is all very egotistical of me.)
I have cheap wine. I’m not going anywhere.
I’m not sexually attractive. I’m not going anywhere.
Even when I see my parents, I no longer feel a part of them or their lives in the way that I did before; this is, of course, exceedingly bad news for me and my overall wellbeing.
So, more often should I turn to my writing, although it is not mine but all the significance of my fingers brushing the flank of a moving vehicle. Yes, my egotistical nonsense! I am ridiculous when I sit around and mourn like this, as though someone has died.

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