fucktardso anyway, i have nothing to say. you don't want to know, and i don't want to talk about it. i know you don't want to know because anyone i try to talk to just isn't interested. people who claim to care about me, don't. it's not a shock. i hate you sufficiently these days to expect it of you. everyone is just too preoccupied with their own shit to bother with mine. if you are reading this and feel it is an indictment of you personally; it is. if you are reading this and feel it is unfair because you are doing your best; you are not.
why should you though? we mostly coast through our lives, and do not bother ourselves much. and we live in a culture that tells us it's all about us. i don't claim to be any different.
i have been despondent since the night i lost a lot of money at poker. it's not the money. i don't care about that at all. it's that i felt i was getting somewhere, and now i feel that a door has slammed in my face.
but you think it is nothing. so what, just move on. but i have nowhere to move on to. i have not written anything this year. not a thing. i felt confident i would. i told mrs zen that i would write a whole book this year. i even made a bet with her. i will now have to pay her off because i didn't write a single word of it. and i won't next year either. what's the point? i don't feel confident, and that lack of confidence has been justified. no one is interested. no one likes my writing much. people with taste find it boring.
even if they didn't, i couldn't push it. that's not me. i am a terrible salesman. i keep hoping that i will write something i will feel confident enough in that even i can't deny it's good. but i destroy any hope of that by not even having the confidence to begin.
maybe that's a thing i do on purpose, so that i can just not try, and by not trying, avoid failure. but if i haven't failed, what else can you say about my life?
nothing except that i've stopped caring. it's the root of the melancholy that has been killing me. it is like lantana in the fields of my self, strangling everything that i am about. now i am about nothing and i wish i was richer. that is all. i simply wish i had stopped caring earlier so that i would now be rich. obviously i could have been. it's only my conscience that has stopped me.
there is no point bothering with me any more. i don't, why should you? the wise money has already fucked off. i was hurt for a while when s disappeared. it seemed grossly unfair that she should judge me, when she had been so wrong. but of course i know she is not someone who even considers that she can be wrong, and as a coping mechanism, it's not bad. i was annoyed that k stopped bothering, particularly because i knew she was still reading my blog, hoping to see her name, i don't doubt. i felt, damnit, she would realise that she had blown it, lost the chance to have something good in her life. good for her, i mean, not good in a bigger sense. but i was wrong and she was right. i am just another fucktard.