Apparently 2015 was a bad year because i published no words. I believe it was a comment from a person I knew long ago and respected that shut me down. He said he enjoyed my little pieces of writing. I had no notion anyone was reading them, let alone someone I know is very intelligent and insightful.
The moment he said it, I had a flash that I would never write in that particular forum again. Then I scoffed...ridiculous. It will encourage me to write more. It will give me confidence.
It stopped me altogether (it stopped me)
my brain doesn't work right.
i've known it all my life. And all my life people have been telling me I'm fine and just like everyone else. I'm not. you are wrong and i am not.
I am stranger than strange and only compensate cuz my IQ is supersized and I can figure things out the hard way. It takes a long time and it's never quite right but close enough because you all don't pay that much attention, do you?
you know what having aspergers and a high iq is like?
it's lonely.
that's all. it's not good. it's not special. it's not useful.
i am intrigued by serial killers cuz the only people i can relate to are people who are way out on the lunatic fringe. I am not a killer. It would have been useful if I were but I'm not. Some things I can forgive myself. Not that.
Deliberate cruelty is what Blanche Dubois calls it. And swears she's never been guilty of it. But she was...she was...she was... That's the repeating repeating shot shot shot throughout the play. Streetcar Named Desire. Tennessee Williams swam every day. and wrote every day. he said. I think he lied.
Blanche's cruelty was telling her fiancé, whom she'd caught in bed with another man, that he disgusted her. The boy then went and shot himself in the head.
Things haven't changed much, really.
I am so very very sorry.
