What Are You Looking For?

Sometimes, when I read the comments that my posts evoke, I am embarrassed. I get the feeling that everything I throw out into the world sounds vaguely like a plea for acceptance. Flattery. Compliment fishing at high season. That is far from my goal. It would be even more selfish than I actually am if I begged people to feel sorry for me, because obviously there are so many people out there who suffer in ways that are much more concrete than mine, far more tragic than the sum of my existential flagellation. (and occasional masturbation. Ok, every God-given day.)

Each accomplishment that I embrace is immediately ridden of any importance. By me. I don’t know how to change this but I would like too.

For example, I wanted, as a young woman, to live in France, to speak French really well, in order to maybe find a way to express what I have to say accurately. I am shy, I am not all that sure of myself but somehow, I made that happen. I know that there are many women who appear to be far more adventurous than I do who never get past the highway exit of their miserable hometown. And then it meant nothing.

Wallowing in my slew of alcoholism, I sought help, went to treatment, quit drinking. It was an enormously painful experience, yet once in the bag, it meant nothing. (and did not last very long. Hélas.)

I have written my way out of a sexless existence (thanks in part to WordPress and more so to my blog friends) and I now partake in carnal pleasures more or less whenever I feel like it and even that means less than nothing.

I have posed nude for an artist and for a photographer despite the fact that sometimes, merely walking through a restaurant in search of the lady’s room can fill me with parlalysing fear.

After three years of complete, tooth grinding anxiety, I have finally gotten the fuck-eating French Driver’s License and I want to celebrate this and feel worthy, but once acquired, it of course means nothing.

I’d like to drive far, far away from my thoughts that continually bury me, but they come back, like an STD that I have so far not contracted. (eek!)

But I don’t have a car. (and if one day I do, that will mean nothing anyway. Obviously.)