I suppose a rant I wrote I while ago, might be of some use to those of you perusing my page. I somewhat believe that it is deplorable, but I'll likely save us from arguing at one point or another. (It's a little long, and a little wordy, and highly cranky. Thank you if you bother to read the entirety, in advance.)

Ready for this not-quite-bullshit?
For future reference, and hopefully with perfect clarification, (As I have apparently confused so many.)

If one more goddamn person tells me that I should be excellent at expressing MY OWN emotions, I am going to fucking EXPLODE. Yes, I write, I’d like to think that I’m capable and I’d like to believe that it’s well-written, moving and beautiful, but I can’t guarantee that. While I’d openly admit that I’ve brought tears to teachers eyes, and had (The MOST WONDERFUL) Librarians tell me that they love me, my Prose and thank you muchly for putting those books back where they belong, (because FUCK nobody wants stay at that school longer than what is absolutely necessary.) Yes I have been published (ish,) and been acknowledged. Yes, I have Written and STUDIED, social situations, the psychology behind them, the sociology, the Dynamics of interaction with peer groups, friend groups, and other such things in NO WAY means that I excel at them. It does not mean that I know what to say in all situations, or to people I actually give a SHIT about, due to LIFE, and my own stunted fucked up psychology. (Every one has something, right?) It does not mean, that just because I read, and I write, and I spend so much time with words, that I can always handle a social situation, or that I know how or when to effectively say something. To quote a favourite Professor of mine, “Oh, there are several things I would Like to Say.” And there are, in a lot of discussions or altercations I manage to get myself into. And I don’t. For the love of fuck, I don’t. (I realize that I should probably be phrasing this a little more politely, or perhaps a little more obscure, but this is me, attempting bluntness in a fashion that very few of you will ever fully see again. There is a part of me, demanding that I delete it, for it’s much too much, and parts of me say ‘Tis fine, Mon Ami’ and parts encouraging that I get more vocal… Er lingual. If anyone would like a clue, (They or you) Par les Dieux, (Bon Dieu, if that what brings you comfort) I urge them to read. I urge them to write. ) I would also like to say, in the lines of “Open communication, of Honesty,” That I cannot always speak of the things that I write about. Some of it’s tooclose, tooraw, or just… unavailable for your perusal. If a clue is wanted, and I’m not as forthcoming as liked, READ, Mes amis, de famili, serait amoureux, READ. Read, whether it be mine or someone else’s’ read, to draw on things you are perhaps not familiar with, or if it’s accordance to me, and you still haven’t a thought in that pretty little head of yours, speak to the Oracle. Really. She won’t mind. She understands, as most Writers, most Artistes will, that sometimes (okay, a lot) of personal experience is not easily stated. She understands, that, WHOA, personal. I will y’all to understand it too, because I get sick and tired of explaining and re-explaining this, OVER and OVER and OVER again, as if being stuck in a temporal loop that repeats itself every sixteen and half minutes, trapped in a room of golden-rod yellow and putrescent shades of vile, vomit scattered on the wall, the room scented with sterility and sick)…

I can not always do the things I write. I can not always say the right words, I cannot make some one else’s’ pain dissipate because I will it. I cannot. I can write about doing such, I can write about overcoming a trauma, being a survivor, by, Bon Dieu, it does not mean that I or that any of my fellow SURVIVORS are HEALED. I can write about being beautiful, or being deserving of love, but it does not make me so. I can write about a beautiful world, one filled ALWAYS with compassion and understanding, I can write about about perfect love and perfect trust, but I cannot make it so. I can influence my corner of the world(or try to at least), but it does not make it so. I can write about overcoming things, but it does not mean that I nor anyone else in situations similar to the ones I have faced have completely over come it. I can WRITE about about a world where abuse, where nonconsensuality DOES NOT EXIST, but Par les Dieux, it does not make it true, no matter how many of us long for it, long for safety that we don’t know will ever come.


All authors, I think, All Beings, would like to reshape the world, would like to change some fact of life or some something that they deal with, encounter and struggle to overcome, but the fact of the matter is, It’s a STRUGGLE. It’s not easy, and I am not saying to “Give up” or not to,(Give up”) because that depends on the individual(s) involved, but as sad and cliched as the phrase, “Just because you want it, doesn’t make it so.” Is true. It’s irritating at times, and it sucks, but it’s true. Sure, one could, “Change the environment” that whatever-the-hell-it-is, is going wrong in, but sometimes, it is simply not that simple. Sometimes, it is, (whether or not you’ll forgive the quotation, and the fact that the man who said it was in a COMPLETELY different verb-tense than I am, at this current moment, Sometimes there are no words, no clever quotes to neatly sum up whats happened that day. Sometimes you do everything right, everything exactly right and still you feel like you failed. Sometimes, the day just ends.”

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