I have just realized something: I don’t like people self indulging. By which I don’t mean buying a bunch of flowers for yourself. I mean people in their middle years endlessly whining on and on and on about how bad their childhood was. By proxy blighting their own children’s life.
Get the fuck over yourself. You are not four any longer you are over forty (in one case). Navel gazing taken to a height even Mount Everest doesn’t aspire to.
One particular blogger (I only follow her blog out of some ridiculous and morbid interest in the human condition) is so self obsessed she caught my imagination. Having a rather irritating eye for detail the researcher in me has started counting references to herself in her often overlong posts. Staggering. It’s all about her. Her. Her and then some more her. Always pointing the finger. Away from her. At others.
I am not a psychologist/psycho anything. Neither am I a fool. If that woman could crawl out of her own warp and for once – just for once – see the world as it is without her tainted vision she’d be so much happier. And would make all those friends she laments she is lacking.
In the meantime I am going to save the world.
Hugs and hisses,