A friend of mine stopped blogging because he felt no one ever read it. Personally, I don't care how many people read or don't read mine. This is me and my silly rants and foibles and follies. I've been amazed when someone actually did comment, either anonymously or with user info, because I can't imagine how they found me, unless it was just through "Next Blog". But I'm flattered that they took the time to read, agree or disagree with me, and then share the experience. When I grow up I'm going to be a writer - which, considering my age, means I'll be the Grandma Moses of the publishing world. But count on it - great things are brewing in my pretty little head, and someday this kettle will boil.
I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection. I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.
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