...delusion

I find it interesting that the more I give voice and expression to my strange and aberrant life, the more often I hear the echo of people around me shouting, “Me too!” This shared commonality is an added incentive for me to mold our shared delusion into a lovely reality.

Reality Bite: It’s another way to face a day in the voluntary internment called motherhood.

I thought my writing would be different from those writers who just can’t resist the opportunity to wail and rant about their tumultuous life to the world.

My writing would not be a desperate attempt at validation, but would act as more of a pressure vent—a diffuser of the silent scream, that threatens to break loose from the quiet corners of my simmering sanity.

I try to resist the temptation to act like a desperate child seeking attention (of any kind), but I'm afraid it's worse than that. I worry that I resemble a Hollywood publicity agent in search of fame and notoriety. I try to remind myself that bad publicity--of any kind--is just bad.

I envisioned my trials acting as a signpost on the road to self-discovery, but instead of a mere warning, my mistakes are broadcast the size of a billboard. My exploits have a good chance at ending up on the front cover of the weekly tabloid along with the three-headed snake and its pet alien. In this era of electronic media, I risk my craziness being lubed and Utubed to internet sites so millions have a permanent public record of my inanities.

I am convinced that if I write my stories with taste and tact, I should be able to turn the spotlight off me and toward a beacon of hope to the future. Let’s just say I’m busy living the title of this chapter.

And the final slap, most public figures still have to do their own laundry.

To me:
Midnight is the time to do laundry. It’s a time that best supports the delusion that I might actually catch up while no one is awake and doing their best to create more dirty laundry … unless someone wets the bed.
On and on, never ending, forever, T.