Black dog/stream of consciousness


Do I sit and write honestly? Ye gads....what a bag of mischief that would release.

Well, stuff it.

Sometimes I get the monthly blues before the red deluge, sometimes I get them afterwards, and sometimes I get them before, during and afterwards (lucky me!) This month (as anyone unfortunate enough to catch me on social networking will attest) has been a swine. I've held off getting an airplane to drag 'I feel like bollocks' across the sky, but other than that everyone knows about it and I'm sure you're as fed up with me as I am.

My ovarian cysts have come back with jazz hands: 'Did you miss us? Did you miss us?! Here, have 6 months pain at once! You don't need to have Valentines Days sex! You don't need to have a weekend at all! Instead you will be sweaty and clamped to your wheat bag all weekend, and when you find a forgotten box of codeine, you'll be so happy you'll want to fellate it!'

Still, it won't take away the pain but it kind of takes away the edges of consciousness.

So yes, I feel shit. I'm pissed off because I had to miss the Anna Scholz Simply Be event. I'm pissed off because I'm missed off the list for most events, and even if I wasn't I couldn't go because I'm a not able. I'm pissed off because depression sucks. I'm pissed off because I'm at that joyous mental health stage where I want to withdraw from everyone and everything, but you can't do that when you're a blogger. No, you cannot. You have to be everywhere - shiny and new. It's not enough that you blog 18 times a week, you have to whore yourself out on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, Instagram and everywhere else. It's not enough that you're a nice(ish?) person, you have to kiss all the right arses, flatter all the right brands, tweet big fat hints like 'Oh, I really want this by XYZ!' (not forgetting to @ mention the people you want a freebie from) and if you have enough followers sure enough it'll land on your doorstep the week afterwards. You might want a new pony, but it's OK you can #PRrequest it. You have to buy everything - or kiss arse for it - be everywhere, know more about the people and the goings on in the plus size world better than you know your own self. What is real life?! You have to sell yourself so much and so short and spread yourself so thin you wonder where the hell YOU are, and you do it because you love the BLOGGING and the readers and somewhere under all this BOLLOCKS is the love of reaching out, the love of sharing your enthusiasm about things, and all this other SHIT ruins it.


See what happens when I run my mouth?

I can't be everywhere. I can't go to every event. I'm one woman with a load of health crap going on and I'm doing my best to be Mrs Wonder Blogger but I'm finding it really bloody hard. Writing a blog post is the easiest thing in the whole process. Seriously. Have I shared it on all the social networks?! Have I put myself out there enough in order to make sure I don't fall out of people's minds? Because she who shouts loudest/most often/to the most amount of people gets heard. This isn't just about DOING enough. The blogging is probably the smallest part of it. You have to network, for as much time as humanly possible. Sleep is for the weak, dontcha know? Have I missed something crucial that's happening on Twitter? Probably, because I spent...ooh, half an hour in which I attempted to have a LIFE. So because I can't possibly keep up with this eternal merry-go-round, I step off while it's still moving, and end up a pile of scattered limbs.

I won't effing #PRrequest a goddamn thing. I won't be happy shiny jazz hands all the time, because that's not real life. There's so much fake bollocks in blogging. So much that isn't real. Well this isn't pretty, and it isn't PR-worthy, but it is real.

I love my readers. I love the connection. But all this fake kissy-arsey-shiny-shiny shit? We are real people with real shit going on in our lives. Let's not forget this. This is PR suicide and I couldn't give a toss. I'm done with this pressure. I'm just going to let it all wash over me. I am an island in a foaming sea. What matters is me and you, my readers. Nothing else matters *breaks into Metallica*.

I'm off the merry go round. I'm a blogger, not a self-publicist, not a professional hinter or an outright grasper. I'm going to concentrate on doing my thing and let it all pass me by.

And no, no one has prompted this. Blogging is so incestuous it's very rare that something happens in a vacuum. But this has. I'm just tired, pissed off and in pain.


Expletive count: I lost count.

If you got this far, I salute you.

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