Ach.

Sometimes I forget that this blog makes me undate-able and unemployable, so I recently got a new job (and am still looking for another), which basically means I’m riddled with anxiety and any mention of my aspirations to be a writer within the working environment are met with a slight nod and then I walk away. I’m still completely unaware of the long term ramifications of running this blog. They might be bad, or they might be good, but, with that in mind, I’ve definitely crash landed a few friendships and had interactions with some total weirdos because of this blog, both of which aren’t good things. I wonder if people actually read anything I put on this clap trap, although one analytics site is telling me I’m reaching 100 hits a day recently, which I think is good, but, then, all of a sudden, I’ll think, “Wait, what the fuck am I actually saying on this blog?” It’s rudderless, unthemed and generally a just a meandering, side winding list of disorganized, uncouth, fairly private thoughts that, when I think about it, I probably don’t want total strangers and half frenemies and old acquaintances reading about on the Internet. Holy shit. What have I done? Of course, if I get my head out of my ass, I can convince myself for three out of seven days of the week that people actually don’t even really give a fuck about what I say on the Internet, which is calming, until, of course, I say something that is – well, you get where I’m going with this one, right?

I’ve been paranoid about misusing words lately, so I’ve been CTRL-T’ing to dictionary.com to reread the definitions of words I already know because I don’t want to look dumb on the Internet. I probably already look dumb on the Internet regardless.

On the other hand, I don’t know what I would do without this blog, because if I weren’t pushing out pieces daily (which vary greatly in quality. Some of this is just total crap), I’d probably be binge drinking at 2pm and pursuing some sort of financially unstable, morally shady career in sex work. Fuck Feast is my panacea, but, given my anxieties about a Truman Show-esque right to privacy and my life is my life, what does it do for you?

I’m pretty sure I just seem crazy, which is accurate.