What if you like to write? (Not that you can especially.) Is it OK? Like anywhere else, you've got to watch what you say, of course, and it helps a lot to make sense. I had a casual writing instructor say all writers are liars. Perhaps; embellishments... tweaks... self-esteeming gymnastics.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself, mister?"
Not much, really. Too much sometimes about aggravations, I suppose. No different from anyone else. But if you think you're 25 when you're 65, getting riled about it is an exercise in futility. I wouldn't lie to myself about that but in the timelessness hither, easy to do.
Ha... actually was more this speed then. I only once went to a disco and some people in the Pacific Northwest got real bent out shape about that scene.
But it was all a sideshow. Amusing presently when I go to the juke interfacing device and pick tunes from yesteryear for to verve milady. I'd much prefer to be now. There's an instability concurrent, feeling out of sorts. Feeling redundant. Regrets.
Enough of those. Presently deep regret for having reacted to confusing perceptions. She said, "My love." and I cut her. Judgemental. Exasperated. Desperate for intimacy. Is it all in the game? I hope so. But, please, be realistic, old Ditz.
So I'll see her tomorrow and feel privileged she gave me a heads up. I will never hurt her again. Having been isolated for so many years has got me unskilled in social graces save for the routine superficialities of commercial transactions, and often I couldn't be bothered. Please God I don't make a fool of myself. Que sera, sera.
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