Good morning my darklings  I’m into the second of cup of cofwp-1453034663408.jpegfee for the day and, well, I started smoking while I waited for the coffee to brew.  I hope you all had better Sundays than I did.  I’ll spare you the gory details of what happened.  It all mostly sucks and who needs that first thing on a Monday morning?  I certainly don’t and won’t be the one to inflict that kind of crap on the people decent enough to bother to read what I have to write.  I wish I could forget it myself.  But in the long run it’s probably better to remember those things, even painful ones, that teach you a lesson.  That way the same mistake is repeatedly repeated.  The fog of misconception has been cleared away and I won’t go back there.

It’s my nature to forgive but not always forget.  So I guess I’ll reach that point eventually.  Until then I’m just going to lay low, wait for the fallout, play with my kids, clean and hopefully find the time and some reason to write.  It would appear that I have topics to write about if I could just get them started on the right foot and keep them going without my computer eating it all again today.  If you’re supposed to use pieces of your life to make part of your writing real, I should be able to write a lot.  But the question is do I really want to write about any of it?

The shit that hurts still hurts but writing is therapeutic for me to begin with though.  And maybe if I give these feelings to someone else, even a fictional someone, it’ll be enough to put this desolation away from me and be able to go on in some manner of life that’s as comfortable and fulfilling as I’d been led to believe it always would be.  I don’t know.  These are just hopes for coping with what’s become of things.  Sometimes I wish I could be what some people accuse me of.  If only I was drunk all of the time, maybe I wouldn’t care.  If I was as crazy as they say, it wouldn’t make a difference to me.  If I was as low of a life as it seems to be believed I am, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go but up.  I don’t think those things are true so words still hurt, actions prove themselves and I don’t know how much alcohol it would take to make me not care.  I’m not going to find out though.  I refuse to become what naysayers claim I am.

Let it all flow from my head and heart, through my fingers into some fictional something where it becomes an abstract, distant memory that only leaves a twinge in my soul and not a gaping whole.