I don't know why I'm writing this. I dont. I fucking hate sharing. I'm a selfish prick. My feelings are so damned guarded all the time. How the fuck is anyone supposed to get to know me? It is always an uphill battle. Pity the ones I love. Truly they suffer for dealing with me. When asked " Does that turn you on?" I completely freak out. Why? Because half the time if it turns me on I'm ashamed, or confused or just pissed off because I feel like I dont even know myself sometimes. This uncertainty makes for a pissy husband and an even more frustrated wife. Will she be upset because I am writing this? Because my communication skills are so fucking pathetic that I'm reduced to venting from a dark bathroom? Seriously, its pretty pathetic. I think sometimes I write shit like this to get it out of my fucking head and just to clear the madness. Other times I'm certain that I'm self sabotaging my life just to feel the pain. Who the fuck knows. Not me, that's for certain. I dont know what I'm trying to say except that I really wish, I mean I truly want it from the depths of my soul. I want the ability to talk. To speak. To fucking communicate instead of yelling, or bitching, or complaining or kvetching or blah blah blah. But when I have an idea, its well formed in my shitty little head, when it comes out it sounds like detritus tossed on a choppy sea of human waste. The wonderful things in my life are just that, independently wonderful. With the addition of me? Pfft. I depreciate that value significantly. Do I think anyone will understand this? Probably not. I'm just spitting crap on a page. This is bile, this is vitriol, this is self hate at its best. Welcome to the show.
(To my wife that may or may not read this... I'm sorry. You deserve much better and I hope I can get there...)
(To my wife that may or may not read this... I'm sorry. You deserve much better and I hope I can get there...)