Well, diarrhea this morning, but maybe I fucked myself with wine and chili last night. No heartburn over night. I slept at least.

I also came to a bit of a realization. I think I just want someone to listen to me. To make the effort to understand me. I don’t have that in my life now, and I feel like maybe I can’t be who I am as a result.

I would like to be understood; this is a theme dating back decades now.

My problem is that no one cares enough, and that I don’t make the effort to be understood.

The other problem is that no one will stop talking or let me speak without interruption.

If ever there were a metaphor for a crowded marketplace, that would be it. Appreciated after the fact or forgotten altogether. It feels as though that’s been my destiny for years.

Like Rodney Dangerfield, I get no respect. Then again, maybe I just don’t have much to say.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 539 words, novel: Father Lightning

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