Delusional

                I find myself writing and writing and writing, and yet I have nothing accomplished.  I have two hundred pages of garbled ranting that I don’t know what to do with.  I rearrange and rewrite and insert and think, but when I’m finished, I’m nowhere near a completed version of anything.

                My story is nonfiction, that much I’ve figured out.   I can’t write anymore shitty fictional stories until I tell the real version of my life.  The problem is that I’m not a rock star or an actress or even someone who anyone knows.  No one will care (okay, maybe about 12 people will care), but other than that there is no audience for my ranting.  And frankly, I will piss a lot of people off and no one will ever look at me the same, so I’ll have to quit my job and move. 

                I wish I lived in the time of the philosopher – was there such a time?  If I went back to the time of Socrates and Plato and Aristotle, they wouldn’t listen to me because I’m a woman.  I’d have to go back to like the 1930s.  Europe, I suppose, since Americans didn’t even want women to vote in this country for the longest time.  Actually, female philosophers have never been a thing people care about.  Female philosophers usually manifest as writers of fiction, like Margaret Atwood, and I cannot write like her.  She is amazing, and I am … not.

                All I can do is just keep trying, I suppose.  Maybe when I get hit by a train or something, someone who is a better writer than me will find my huge pile of shit and make something of it.  Until then, I’ll just run on this fucking hamster wheel.  It’s unbelievable that I am still wasting my time with this.  I’m going to go watch the rain outside – it’s more productive than staring at this screen.  And much more beautiful, even through the gloom and thunder.