You Don't Know About Me
I was going to write a nicely condensed list of things blog readers who don't actually get my witty personality in real life might not know. (Cleverly titled "Things You Don't Know About Me") Then I decided it'd be much more fun if you left me questions and then I can reply to them in a later blog post, or even a FAQ. Exciting isn't it?
No, not terribly.
Today I'm doing every bloggers favourite whinge of "Would anyone notice if I didn't blog?" and expecting the universe to answer with a resounding and positive "Yes".
You gotta mouth but you ain't got guts That drunken mouth you should keep it shut
You don't know what it's been like Meeting someone like you
Do we ever really know people though? I feel so ostracised, at work, in the street. I could stand for hours letting the rain fall down my face watching everyone else, desperate for that connection, the indescribable one.
It's a bit like static electricity, hairs on the neck, that kind of connection. I hate small talk and thrive from people who I can get down to the nitty-gritty with. Which could be why I have the ease of talking to complete strangers only when I've had a skin-full.
I can and do spend hours researching infamous serial killers, and those dregs of humanity, those which were written off as "mad" or "bad". I keep thinking about writing to Charles Bronson, and how fascinating all these people are.
Those that have seen the boundaries we all live in, and literally smashed through them, making up their own rules and at times, appearing to not feel the consequences of the heinous crimes they've committed.
Maybe infamy is easier to achieve than fame? Maybe the narcissism that is in an artist is in all serial killers?
I don't even feel like an artist right now. If I think of the image the word artist conjures up in my minds eye, I'm not even close. I feel like my heart has been strung out and left to rot. I am completely convinced that at this point I'm never going to achieve.
Maybe I'm greedy for something, because I'm sure everyone is gonna tell me how I have achieved and "you've come so far". It doesn't feel like that though, and telling me well done for past accomplishes doesn't make me feel any better about my position today.
Sometimes you get better support stating what you don't want to hear.
I wanted to post more organically, to give me space to actually write about what I wanted to write, and I'm trying to hold back from posting 30 times a day, as my thoughts feel so alien and my feelings feel detached.
I go crazy 'cause here isn't where I wanna be And satisfaction feels like a distant memory And I can't help myself, All I wanna hear her say is "Are you mine? "
I'm not adverse to taking risks, I've taken some really stupid and dangerous risks in the past, and surprisingly they've paid off in the luckiest of ways, and I am terribly unlucky normally. So it's not that, I'm not someone that goes searching for change, and I hate looking stupid, I'm secretive, believe it or not.
Maybe liking myself is not the start of the journey, it's the destination.