this is an honest question: why am i bothering?  writing, that is.

i nearly always write for it to be read.  i finish it quickly--my thought right now is "hurry the fuck up so you can think about showing it to someone--maybe Mike?"

so there's a basic editing-as-i-write technique, but nothing robust.

now i am wishing my audience were my previous therapist, Olivia.  i read her one of my short stories once--it was about the man who was reminiscing about his baths with his late wife.  i flubbed up a bunch of words when i read it aloud.  i read it aloud because i wouldn't have been able to take attempting to study her face for any kind of reaction.  she was exceedingly good at deadpanning, too.  any such attempt by me would have been moot.

i just flipped tabs to see if i used 'moot' correctly, and i was too lazy to read the definition in its entirety, so i declare--for all intents and purposes--that i have used it correctly in this really, really worthless post.

this "train of thought" thing might have something to it -- but it might not.  i remember having a similar exercise in a creative writing course in high school; i knew i wanted to read my finished product aloud, so i edited-it-as-i-went.  i can still remember some semblance of the opening line i wrote, it went something like "my train of thought has once again derailed".  that's gross.  i was performing.

am performing.  always performing.  but turning 30 made me realize something--or maybe it's from all of the 'somethings' i read on different internet platforms about people turning 30, or maybe it's from everyone saying that my '30s will be so much more fun than [my] 20s'--i realized that i so desperately want to not give a shit about what anyone else, anyone else thinks about me, and sometimes i want it so hard i aaaalmost convince myself that i'm doing it.  those days are generally decent days.

mom, i don't want to be mad at you.  but i've grown away from you.

jess, i don't think i could have asked for a better sister.  mom--thanks for Jess.  you should thank yourself for your own daughter, too.  sure, she and i didn't get on so well when we were little shits; but now that we're older, grown up, adult shits--well, just know that Jess saved my life.

oh god, but was it worth saving?

mike's home.  he'll stop in here, probably.  going to sign off for now.  merry christmas!