or More Things We Could’ve Done Privately, But Then They Wouldn’t Be Proper Cries for Attention, Would They?
I have always written because of women. There’s no women in my life. I have no one to impress, no one to turn to for any kind of validation. The cat thinks everything I do is fantastic and boring.
Also, life’s kinda sad. Ya know, being lonely is tough. No one wants to hear about how being lonely is tough, everyone already knows that. I look at my life, where the highlights are getting to watch the new Doctor Who episode on Sundays, and the lowlights are cringing because of the alcohol-fueled escapism that every non-working moment (the few that remain) has become. Drink, fight, go to a new place, don’t sit still, don’t think, not even for a second, drink drink, consume, watch, worry, go back to work, read, walk walk walk think walk, bike, yell, drink drink drink, keep moving, don’t stop, no roots, if you stop you die.
No one wants to read that shit! People like adventure! Romance! Indomitable spirit! But we’re getting older and more tired and that pace is tough to keep up. It’s easy to write when you’re in love (with anything), it’s hard as hell when you’re in reality.
Also, we lack discipline. But more also, it’s the woman thing. For me.