Out of Fucks

I’m tired.  Really really really tired.

I had planned a part 2 for my Manic post from yesterday… but…  I have run out of fucks to give, so it’s not happening.

I’m also so out of fucks that I am sitting in front of this blog just pissed off and don’t know why I committed to writing.  Why I even want to write.  Or what the purpose is for me of doing any of this.

Nobody cares.

I know, there are like 6 of you that care.  Or maybe 3.  I’m sorry.  I acknowledge your caring.  The REST of the world doesn’t care.  And… right now… I don’t care.  I don’t care about writing.  I don’t care about doing this stupid project.  I don’t care about putting myself into this for no conceivable reason that makes sense to me.

I spent two hours… TWO HOURS writing that stupid story last night.  And why?  Why did I do that?  I don’t have an answer for myself.  Two hours.  And how many countless other hours of my life have I spent writing?  What could I have been doing with all of that time?  Something useful, productive, meaningful, something with some kind of a point…

I just read an article titled “How to Write when Nobody Gives a Shit” and… she had all these profound and meaningful reasons to write for yourself… and.. how life feels worse not writing than writing, and how many you touch someone out there that you don’t even know about…  and I just thought… Nope!  Not for me.  Writing is torture.  Nobody needs anything I have to say.  And… No.  I have no deep, philosophical, “save the world, even if you don’t know it” purpose.  My writing doesn’t change anything or anybody.  Not even me.

Maybe when I was a kid, and I actually ENJOYED writing, and I liked telling myself stories and getting to live out adventures through my own words… maybe it had a point.  Maybe when I couldn’t live my authentic life and writing was my escape, maybe it had a point.  Maybe when I was in fucked up relationships that I couldn’t make sense of, throwing characters into those situations and trying to work it out through them served a purpose.

But right now?  I’m not sure why I’m doing it.

I’m not sure… why I think I can recapture something from when I was ten years old.  What kind of ridiculous wishful thinking is that?

I have a job.

Writing isn’t it.

I don’t get paid.  I don’t get rewarded.  And I fucking suffer for it and right now I’m not sure I see the point.

And probably tomorrow, after I get some bloody sleep tonight (hopefully, for the first time in a week) I will wake up all filled with some angsty, masochistic need to write again.  And I will be so pissed off.

I’m fucking tired.

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