I don’t have good sense, you know? I whine and complain about falling short, not measuring up, then put myself right back on the same course for failure. That’s not normal.
Maybe pounding my head on keyboards and desks and walls has done some damage up there. Dislodged a part or two, frayed the wiring? I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve never knocked myself unconscious, but I’ve made myself dizzy. Lots of times. Everything went black once and I had to lie down for a while. Should I have an MRI, you think?
Great, now I’ve scared the bejeezus out of myself. I’ll be imagining all kinds of gruesome scenarios involving bone saws and neurologists and removable brain pans. Oh, good job, I’m gonna be sick.
I need to get hold of myself. Put an end to this monkey business once and for all. Quit pretending to know what I’m doing. I don’t, I don’t have a clue. I should just relax and be content with posting things on my little blog here. It’s not proud, it publishes everything — good, bad, and indifferent.
Yes, that’s what I should do: be content with what I have. And I will. Right after I send this latest submission. It’s pretty decent, I think. Oh, shoot, would you look at that? There they go, my hopes, they’re headed skyward. Again. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just sit here quietly and wait for them to come crashing back to the ground.
Stand back, everyone, give them plenty of room.