Snarkattack

Contrary to what most ‘realists’ might think, my helping out in the organisation is not about pushing and shoving my way into the writing scene. If I wanted to do that, I would still be friends with this horrid individual what I dub the ‘fat cow mythomanic’ poet. Cow-like only in size, for the truth is, cows are beautiful, gentle creatures.

I am none of those things: fat? Pockets of it here and there but not uniformly, no. Cow? In size, no, in temparament, no. Mythomanic? On the contrary. Embarrassingly, I seem to be born with some natural truth serum. Perhaps my brain accidentally used all its seratonin to make the truth serum. Incidentally, if I loved myself as much as the fat cow mythomanic poet did, perhaps chronic depression would be an unknown term to me. As would being unpublished. But I think I can do something about the latter. Hopefully, depressed or not, fat or not.

Anyway, ground control to major Tom. Volunteering. Why? Because now that I’m pumped up full of chemicals that make me enthusiastic to be alive, I do not want to lose this newly acquired gift to making money in an environment reminiscent of Orwell’s 1984. I’m still not well enough to work full-time (unless you call needing 15 hours of sleep a day after 3 days in a row of 9 to 5 work normal. It ain’t). Because it’s nice to be helpful or useful, and for me to actively want to leave the house without morbid fears tagging along.

Also, I get to learn some really good things about a field I’m interested in, and don’t have to worry about being told off for sitting the wrong way, or not stacking the dishwasher the way College Bimbo A wants. College Bimbo A should let me work while she continues to enthrall College Bimbo B about how she has the choice over what man she dates because she picked up 3 totally hot guys, at this bar, I was like, so shit-faced, one looked like a loser and the other had muscles…