These Scars In My Flesh, I'm Bruised And I'm Bloodied

Tearing open the wounds that I have received over the last few months is either going to be very productive for me, or super shitty.  I haven't figured out which.

But if I face the truth, I tend to relish that painful lonely feeling.

I remember when T. left me I sat in my apartment listening to The Doors, reading Hunter S. Thompson, drinking way to much rum, and smoking way to much weed.  And I liked it.  It was the Genesis for my writing (at least seriously).  And it was fertile ground for the kind of brutal fiction that I tend to write.

But now I'm trying to get away from fiction.

So the heartache and the pain that I'm writing about doesn't have the comfort buffer of zombies, or ancient mythology.  It is real.  And it is mine.  And most of it still hurts a fuck load.

And I can't figure out if I'm writing to feel the pain (almost a new form of cutting).  Or if I'm doing it to heal from the pain.

I was never to good at leaving scabs alone.

But then again, chicks dig scars.

File under Vice.