Publishing

I forget what I'm even here for.  I wonder if it's the alcohol or some deep seated fear of scrutiny that's got me minimizing the script I logged in to blogspot ready to rip into for.  It's gotta be the alcohol.  The fear wouldn't let me log in in the first place, but it definitely would let me get far enough to find myself a couple sentences deep, desperately kicking against uncertainty to show I have something to say.  The fear doesn't want me to just back off, it wants me to humiliate myself on a worldwide scale so that every other time I try and present myself to an audience it has ammunition cocked and loading, firing, 'you're worthless and you goddamned know it,' ripping into my cheeks, catching my neck and scraping the skin right off of my chest so that I never make the mistake of allowing myself to be seen to an outside world again.  Well, tonight I  escaped the shotgun scattershot.  Tonight I made it to the publishing page and even though I've long since forgotten what I came here to say, the pulsating need to say something has kept me on the dial.  I don't know why I'm here, but I do know that somebody out there needs to hear it.  If they don't, I'll just up and burst into millions of strings of confetti.  You can use the cut up strips of my being to celebrate your next big party.