Holes

I want to go to sleep. I want to go to sleep and not be woken up until Doomsday, when I can appropriately be sent to Hell.

I want to never write anything ever again.

Englith langwidge ith shupid. Hlate itsh mupch mupsch.

I want to sit and sketch, or I want to sit and read, and most of all I want to never ever send feedback ever again. I can't believe the author could find it all nearly as traumatising as the feedback-er. It's my own fault, I did comment on her lj asking if she'd welcome more critical feedback. And she said yes, and I said I'd email it, and then her friends turned up and it morphed into a big thing about why I couldn't just post it there, and that I shouldn't send negative views, and I can't handle any of this, and I'm really not hyperventilating. They wanted me to write everything out right there, for everybody to read and stare and get angry about. Not hyperventilating.

I'm not I'm not I'm not. M'not.

And suddenly I'm eight years old again, standing in front of the school, vivacious and proud. I've got the opening line, and it's a good line, and I say it so well in rehearsals that people point at me and snigger, laughing in corridors. They say my opening line, and they wish they could say it so well, but I'm a vivacious eight year old that spends her whole life in books, and there's no-one else in the school with diction like mine.

I don't get stage-fright, I don't tremor. There's no stutter, and I know I'm good. On stage, deliver the line, play my part, lead the class off stage. All in a day's work for a performing vivacious eight year old. I've done it a hundred times, in every school play and in even more private ones, fanatically planned shows put on for the parents. Costumes, scripts, dance shoes and face paints. Music stands and harmony parts, orchestra and board displays.

I'm a freaky eight year old, vivacious and proud. There's a difference between being good at things and specialness or talent. I'm a freaky eight year old, and there's no such thing as good attention. Every little bit's just a slap in the face.

I did all those things in front of all those people, and I never thought twice. Nowadays my tongue trips over the end of every word, and I stumble, fidget, and shrink when I'm up before a crowd. I did all those things as an eight year old, but now I lower my eyes.

I won't be commenting on any more ViggOrli livejournals. I can't stand and type for that many angry people.

Find me a hole, bury me deep.