Love my words one moment, want to trash them the next. It’s a question of moods, not mental critique. One minute I look at my words and love the imagery I’ve created and the expression of a theme. Then I look at them again and despise all that wishy-washy, faux-spiritual bullshit.

The problem I have with writing these days is that I hate my own nature. Ripped in two by the cynic and the little girl dreaming. Fed-the-fuck-up with the child who wont let the adult be.

It’s emotional OCD, of a kind. Picking apart the sentences, strings of grotesque and overwritten feeling. A sick feeling in gut and brain that the wrong collection of words might reveal just the wrong thing- the truth I might change my mind about six or seven times after it’s too late to change the prose, because it’s already out there and giving people the most disgustingly wrong idea about what the fuck goes on inside my brain.

I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea about me, but I’ve no idea what ideas they would perceive because it’s clouded by their own confusion. Reader/Writer Theory. It’s awkward as fuck.

Later on I’ll read this, and hate using the F word even once. Picky picky bitch, the prissy madam who reads this through, a Victorianesque editor, too prim to show even show a prosaic ankle.

Well this is the bitch who’s writing. She says get the fuck over yourself. You- and the world- are fucked. May as well start acting like it, and stop clamping your own mouth shut with fear and pretension.