Fukkery
At what point does one’s life become too publicly lived? I have always blogged, Tweeted and other social media’d basically as a means of therapy. To purge whatever is in my brain to open it to the next new experience or adventure. To say whatever it is that I just can’t to those who so richly deserve it (love or hate). To put out a word of encouragement and wait for its seed to manifest for myself or whomever is watching.
Right now I find myself so glad I haven’t been blogging about work, friends, life. Sure I blog, but in a roundabout dance that is designed to leave more questions than answers. And right now, in the absolute dearth of genuine relationships anywhere in my face-to-face life, is when I’m both glad to have kept my silence/distance and annoyed to absolute death that have to bottle up what I’m feeling so as not to offend people who have proven that they don’t give a shit about me.
If turning 39 has done anything for me, it’s made me realize that my life is half-over and what do I have to show for it? If these are my peak earning years, the height of my “pretty years,” the last gasp of summer before the third season starts to turn the leaves from vibrant greens to rustic reds and, eventually, drab browns … well, they leave a lot to be desired.
I don’t even know how to change all of this fukkery. And I can’t say I don’t see more ahead. I guess my parting thought for now, to everyone who needs to hear it, is if you don’t expect others to buy your b.s., why on earth do you think I would?