I can but thank my loyal reader for putting up with my erratic, some might say unhinged, ramblings in recent weeks. My latest incoherent mental implosion did gain some sympathy which, I promise, I was not looking for. A meltdown of post British Red Cross proportions is not something most people want to read over their Rice Krispies. So, I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry about inflicting a half-arsed, self-pitying whine on you. You, my loyal reader, and particularly those of you who are kindly supporting me through this blog, deserve better.
Having thought more about it, yesterday’s efforts were pointless since I’m not in a position to tell a world that isn’t waiting what the actual fuck is going on in my life and so in my head.
The biggest issue with sharing personal stuff in this blog is that I can’t include people who are still alive, whether they are the actual subject matter or potential collateral damage. So in the end, all I tell you is how shit I feel but, by the way, don’t feel too sorry for me. I know, I know: it’s absurd. And I’m sorry.
My only excuse is that letting it all out, even though for most people it wasn’t ‘all’, is that it has, to a limited extent, cleansed my soul. I am often sceptical that talking about stuff, or in my case writing about stuff, doesn’t always work, but it did yesterday in the sense that I now have greater clarity on how to deal with ‘it’.
Thanks for putting up with me. I don’t think I’m quite there in my bid to become a professional columnist with a top newspaper, but, as Elton John once sang, I’m Still Standing. Actually, he sang Am Steel Staindin’ in his bizarre American accent, but you get the drift.
