Interruptions and Thought Abuse

I will never be a writer.  Never.  I can’t get other fucking people away from me long enough to write anything meaningful.  I try to cajole them simply to get the hell out of my space.  GET THE FUCK AWAY!  But they won’t.  They won’t leave me alone.  I cannot be alone inside of my own home or inside of my own head.  They fucking pester and talk and whine and INTERRUPT until I am so fucking annoyed and irritated and off-track that I have no hope of ever writing anything coherent or decisive or original or devoted or creative.  All I want is for them to fuck off and leave me to my own senses.  LEAVE ME ALONE.  Let me hide in my bunker and write.  Let me tap into the part of my soul that needs expression.  Let me write something meaningful. 

They don’t know how to go away.  They don’t understand how important it is for me to be alone in my own head.  They don’t care.  They want.  They.  Want.  Everybody just wants shit from other people.  They don’t stop to consider the emotional (and physical) toll it takes on the people from whom they want.  I suppose I shouldn’t have made my specific life choices if I didn’t subconsciously want people to need me, but … come on.  There is a time and a place for codependency, and every, single day is not it. 

I want to be able to enjoy a cocktail and a cigarette, alone.   Without looks and commentary and judgment about how this stupid fucking cigarette is going to kill me.   You know what’s going to kill me?  The fact that people won’t get the fuck out of my space and let me be who I am.  I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for being who I am, and yet society has done a great job of ruining fun for the sake of fun.  Or maybe it’s just the way my brain is wired:  I forgot how to just be myself during the process of “growing up” and “becoming responsible”.  (Both of which are overrated, by the way.)

I would just like to bathe in my own thoughts without interruption, and then periodically write those thoughts down in an uninterrupted stream of words which might eventually amount to something.   People used to have the ability to entertain themselves; I think it’s a lost and forgotten art.