I am not anyone's project. And I don't need anyone to feel sorry for me. I am a fighter. I got this, as the kids say.
I will wade through this atrocious inner pond of Hades, through the stinking bile and piles of fecund matter, my pittance held atop my head, and I will come out the other side smelling of roses and ready to cave Goliath's forehead in with a piece of agate that caught my eye.
I realize that I am spilling an unfair amount of anger into this blog, like a tanker aground on abrasive and unforgiving coral off some beach in the South Pacific. Life is a process. Anger is part of that process. I do not feel guilty, ashamed, nor do I apologize.
I, I will grab this, my life, by the tender vittles and I, I will show it who is in charge. I will wage this war, ultimately, alone, and rise victorious from a muddy foxhole into a sunrise as yet besmirched by mustard gas and cordite, and I will laugh the guffaw of the mentally insane and trudge off to find the answers I seek.
I do not lie to myself anymore. I see through the flimsy veil that others present to me that does little to conceal the deep, dark untruths to which they cleverly keep themselves blind.
I choose what I do, how I react. I am not perfect, I make mistakes. I will learn from my mistakes.
But I will not, will NOT, take the plate of rotted meat and maggot-ridden fruit that is presented me and call it a feast fit for a king.
Bear with me, O thou long-suffering non-existent readers, my droogs and only friends, for I am in a moment of transition that requires I spew certain things into a place of safety and acceptance.
And sometimes, this is the only place where I can do that.