I haven’t had much of a reason to write even thou I tell myself that I am a writer. Doers do and writers write. How is it that everything I have to say about myself and gets drowned out in apathy? How is it that despite me not having anyone or anything to concern myself with at this moment in time, I chose to not do even that for myself.
I am in my early 40s, the place where you should have an understanding of what your life is supposed to be like. Despite having been there for the past three years I feel no closer to the answer as of yet. The past doesn’t loom over my thought process as much, but the present and future seem like some kind of complex fucking rubix cube that I need a cheat sheet to solve.
My therapist believes I hade made progress, but I keep feeling like I need some kind of Walt Disney breakthrough where I get a sudden revelation that the feelings of being a fat, unloved insecure bald-headed forty something year old man are unwarranted. I keep reaching for the “fuck it” formula that makes sense for the life I want to lead.
It’s like I want to get to the destination before I go through the journey. A painful, mistaken ridden, embarrassing journey with no Elton John musical numbers or deceased parents talking to me through crystals or clouds (yes those are Superman and Lion King references).
This blog I suppose will be a combination of that journey, all the shitty situations and thoughts that go with it and other stuff going on around the world.