I drew on some more prints. But not loads. Just some.

Fishpaste.

I used to blog a lot, about what and whoever I wanted. And I didn’t know who read it, only that people did.

Now, there’s a constant niggle that I’m walking a fine line with everyone I do and don’t know. People I work with or deal with through work. Galleries, other artists, asshole friends of friends.

I know how stupid it is, to do something publicly, but to want the grand ability to stick blinkers on the people I want to. The last time I freely blogged my boss, clients and friends’ parents couldn’t have access to my every bitch and thought. And at the same time I’m knocked sideways with the massive weight of “WHY?!” You know? I never thought any of those people would care what I have to say for myself.

Indeed this isn’t creative writing. It has no merit. It’s my self-indulgent reservoir, where I dumped all the things I don’t want on my chest. And I feel better for it, when it happens properly.

I looked through the last few entries in my blog recently and they look very much like the product of a single brain cell grappling for life. It gasps and glimmers with a brief bout of self deprecation and then blinks out, almost dead, holding out for art news…
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This is boring shit. And I only do it to entertain myself, though I seem to be writing, posting and then whipping things offline faster than you can say “whoops”. I’m not entertained. I’m not roaring with laughter recounting the stupid things I got up to with Renata. Because lets face it, I’d get in more trouble than I have before and probably sacked too.

I’ve done the old “is this okay?” thing to mom, Ideal Brown and Bones.

Ideal Brown is a professional sort of chap who has worked his ass off for everything he has. Nothing is okay with him. He says “Look, you know me and I’d not say that, but you know…it’s your thing”. Mom says “That’s fine, sweetheart, only you used the word “site” incorrectly”.
And Bones would have me giving the whole world the finger, though I really don’t want to. That’s really not what I’ve set out to do at all. When his response is “who gives a fuck?” I resort to plain old self-editing. I feel bored, semi-safe and like I’m sitting on such a delicious bout of bitching I can hardly contain myself.

If you’ve ever spent a second of your time here, please know this: I have a raging bile duct and I’d love nothing more than to empty it all over your screen. But for the time being, I can’t.

Oh god, even this is tedious.

In the past two weeks there have been three birthday celebrations, two engagements, Laura’s arrival home, the Kinsey show, finally seeing Lyn and Greg and meeting my sister-in-law-to-be.

Grahame arrives home in a week…it’ll be my last big party and then I’m done. Done done done done. Sick of booze. Sick of THE FEAR.

I don’t give a fuck how old you turn or where you’re disappearing to for 18 months, I’ll text you a merry smiley. I think I’m sweating icing, white wine and meat. Altogether.

I’m going back to spending weekends out in the yard trying to deter the cat from piddling on my strawberries, whilst saving fast and furiously for an irresponsible holiday and a faraway wedding.

where are my paragraphs?

i’m too ill to play this bastard game. i’m going to set up blogsthatdon’tpissabout.com_inyoureye

fuggit