I am sitting here with my vodka and cranberry juice drink (ok it’s the third) and am trying to think of what to write for this blog entry. I am sitting with my mother and she says write what makes me miscellanyme. I don’t know. It is all of the uncohesiveness in my life. All the bullshit things that I have deemed important and unimportant. But they are all events in my life, they are not what I am.
Who am I? That is the million dollar question, right? Are you the summation of what has happened to you? By the time you figure all of that out are you old and dead? My littany of trauma has ended (I hope). The peaceful life I may have wished for is here. But now who am I? I am no longer who I was. Should I take the cheap shot that many have taken and discuss the f—ed up life I have had?
I always wanted to write. My earliest memory is of me wanting to be a famous AUTHOR, but why? To say something important. But when I go back and read these things I thought were important, they are stupid. They make me blush at the pathetic banality of them all. And how do you become a great writer, except by sacrifice. I sacrifice myself. For all of the stupidity. But I will not improve because I do not know how to throw myself into the fire and become pure from that cleansing. I will always hedge at the corners knowing the greatest fire is for those consumed. And I am never consumed. And this is my final of the 5 and how sad it is.
