sometimes this town resembles nothing so much as a stagnant fucking rockpool.
just recently, i don't know, seems i'm overhearing so many rumours and secondhand opinions on myself, none of them good and most inaccurate, my intentions inverted, embroidered with some spurious cynical motive which only serves to justify the original negative opinion with a circular argument.
and it's true that, the more successful we’ve become (on a very local level, for something as meaningless as throwing a good party once a month), the more i've felt scrutinized and found wanting, the less i've wanted to enter into the endless party politics, the tactical friendships, the accessorised signifiers, all that stuff that i was never any good at anyway, but that i blundered through and was given the benefit of the doubt perhaps.
i feel like my right to make mistakes has been revoked. i’m not sure i feel welcome anywhere outside my bedroom any more. certainly, i've more or less quit going to parties, i only ever fell asleep anyway, a readymade punchline.
there are days when i don’t leave the house, days when the idea appals, when i'd rather sit here and not see anyone and work 'cause it’s only through work that i can see any worth, any point to the me that i made at all. but this isn’t a failing, it's a choice. i wouldn’t have it any other way.