The Rart Stuff

Just scrolled down and saw I didn't get arse-fucked around to finishing my Tassie story...

*considers it*

Yeah... that shit has gone stale in my brain now... there's some stuff I know you kids would've gotten a hoot out of.. stuff that happened that I should blog. But I can't be arse-fucked.

There's just a little something I think I need to address, seeing as I seem to be getting so many more hits these days (used to average a couple a week if i was lucky, now average that on most days). I began this blog to serve no other purpose to me but to act as my punching bag on which to both vent, but also to practice. Practice the writing I was told I had potential in but would end up in a gutter somewhere if I didn't work my tits off at it.

Since I've been about 14 years old I wrote pretty much everyday; it began as my only way to vent the hell that was eating away at my insides. Soon it was my only coping mechanism; pages became the only place I could scream, cry, laugh and dream. While my exterior gradually closed further and further in on itself by interior was still able to clutch onto some small aspect of feeling alive even though I felt so dead.

The journals from back then I still have, but I can't read them. I get a childish joy about flicking through the pages and seeing my young self's writing scrawled across every square inch of paper, but I can;t read the words. I don't know how that wound can still be so raw. I believe that time can heal all wounds, but I wish there was some kind of manual on how much time is needed for the intensity of each traumatic experience.

But through that shaky start I started writing as a habit. A habit I needed to be able to function in the everyday world. Using the paper as a means of feeling the opposite of how the world and the people in it made me feel. Writing was the only thing that ever gave me a voice. I'd be able to sift through my torrent of thoughts and extract an articulation of things that astounded even myself. The paper showed me what I was capable of, gave me hope of something bigger than what I currently was. Through the writing and no other aspect in my sad life I ever so slowly grew.

But the more you write the more critical you seem to get of it. Critiquing the words before they're even on the paper. Some days wanting to write so badly but being haunted that what you have to say isn't good enough as though you are writing for someone else.
That is a downfall of blogging. What begins as a means of writing, showcasing what you have to an indifferent audience to gather unbiased, honest views slowly deteriorates into writing for the audience. Thinking about them in every word. Thinking about how many hits you'll get for this post, how many comments. Whether this will be the post to launch you into blogger stardom (aka being on a lot more blog rolls).

I admit that I fell into that trap for a short time. But I think I've successfully shaken it now. I like my blogs to ramble and make little sense. While I don't necessarily want Rusted Gumption to sink into the endless black hole of forgotten blogs, I don't like having a big readership. I can crap on till the cows cum (Pun Fun!!!) about 'writing for myself, not caring what anyone thinks, yada yada yada', but the truth is, while I might generally think that now, some time down the track on a lot more 'favorite's' lists I'll be more aware of my popularity and shy from the raw honesty that has made Rusted Gumption what it is, what I'm proud of.

So to sum up, what I'm getting at, I think, is this. If you are looking for some examples of intelligent, finely crafted, planned blogs, check out my blog roll (yes that includes you Bo), because what I write here I don't write to fit into any of those categories. I use this blog the same way I used those pages back when i was 14. To waffle, ramble, spurt and practice fucking practice. To vent the fucking shit out; being blunt as a brick and as raw as a fly-blown sheep's arse crack.

I don't expect many people to read what I write all the way through, because if they did it'd mean I was doing something wrong (by my own standards anyway).

So I guess that's what I was trying to get out, I think. Or was it? Yeahh.... bugger that thinking too hard crap, I've me some brain cells to go waste.. *runs away*