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Monday, April 20, 2015

not quite there yet

The weekend was crazy fun, wasn't it? The twitters were rowdy, the movie chats were even rowdier, my gangs are awesome, and I love all the people.


Twenty days into the Lexxplosion, eight days past the hypomanic-induced epiphany, and now comes the metaphorical final rending of the heart, because the rest cannot be written without metaphorical blood. I'm intentionally avoiding being all-out dramatic because I know some of you have triggers. I do, too. I have been plowing through and dealing with an astonishing amount of continual triggers that have me wondering how I've made it this far in my life without completely self destructing. Not for the lack of trying, please understand, but for the ignorance of myself being a sort of morbid bliss that allowed the time needed for ripened aging. Metaphorically. But please don't crack an oak barrel joke. I have an oak tree just off my front deck that is in full orgasmic surge and my eyeballs are oozing down my face, which is making a mockery of my melodrama.

In all the 2 million words I've collected across public and mostly private blogs, I have never yet written down a particular thing in a public way beyond mentioning in passing and burying under piles of other stuff, mostly because 1- I haven't been able to bring myself to do it, and 2- the last thing I want is a blog post drawing heavy comments, which it certainly would. I have met a lot of people saying a lot of sad and horrific things. I've been through sad and horrific things. But I have never run into another person who knows what to say to this sad and horrific thing, or has any way of identifying with it. It's a rather unique kind of experience, and you can tell I'm screwing up my nerve to get it written out now, can't you?

The challenge is writing sad and horrific without toxicity overload, without veering off into directions opposite of my goals, without creating a reader stain that becomes its own selling point or some kind of statement that skews expectations of why I'm writing. I daresay blogging one's innermost darknesses are becoming somewhat of a fashion trend for those whipping up content creation to further their own representative presence (blogging circles are the new Maury Povich/Oprah/TheView internetainment), and while I don't mean that unkindly at all and wholeheartedly agree it's important to share our experiences and truths, what I do mean is that mine wins and this isn't a competition. Mine can't go on a blog without being curated through a publisher first, before reaction and response turns it into something else.

The real truth, behind all the other truths, is known only to one beta reader and my family right now. Soon we'll see why it's important for me to asplode the whole world in the most cunning evil villain way possible. I checkmate, or I go home.


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