New Blog, Old Broad.

Here I go writing for the lackluster internet void.  As the chapters of my old fairly well read, paid writing job, is now defunct, I decide now to embark on a new chapter of late-twenties musings.  Of course, due to my clinical depression, replete with low self-esteem, I look at the term “late-twenties musings” as cliche and nauseating.  In fact, most of what I write turns into a celebration of intense self-critique.  After my pieces are completed I re-read with a harsh “harumph” and walk away with no sense of accompishment what-so-ever.  I feel as though all I have done is vomit up old adages and commentary with my ersatz post-modernism. (My post-modernism is probably closer to post-past-old-modernism, like art that returns to realism or older forms because everything “edgy” has been done. I’m behind my time, not ahead of it) - But by being behind in my time instead of present or avant does that in FACT make me avant-garde because no one is doing it—?? Lord quell this ADHD.

No, I don’t like to analyze what kind of movement I belong to. I prefer to just keep on keeping on like the geriatric I feel.

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