I hate reality at times. My hatred is personal and global.
It’s probably not really hatred. “Hate” is a strong word I try to use sparingly. I want to hold it back, keep the impact intact for situations that are really deserving. Like, “I hate Nazis.”
I dislike reality at times. My dislike is personal and global. Reality is, at times, wholly annoying…
“Titles are annoying, both status-based and written. Social titles are annoying, creating an artificial hierarchical structure that I refuse to buy into. Titles for written works are also annoying. Creating new ones over and over is onerous. I hate trying to be clever and attention-grabbing. I hate trying to summarize my thoughts in seven words or less. If I could do that, I wouldn’t need three pages of writing. I would be queen of the aphorism…”
“I’ve been giving some thought to an issue that’s come up and I’ve come to a conclusion that startled me: I don’t think I like chocolate very much. This has kind of rocked my world…”
Why isn’t what I do “living a life”? Because I don’t consider it to be.
I’m always vaguely apologetic when people ask “what do you do?” I shuffle and deflect and respond that I don’t do much, I kind of write, sort of, it’s nothing really. I dismiss how I spend my days and give the impression that writing isn’t really that important to me…