Mission statement, another one.

I'm in a perpetual state of worry. That I come off as pretentiously as I take myself to be; I guess I'm proud of who I am and shouldn't apologise for sticking my neck out, but words hurt, ya know. But worse still, I worry that I'm not as smart as all these condescending facial expressions suggest [wiggles eyebrows; smarms a smarmy smarm]. I feel like I have something to say, it might not be an entirely original thought - but given those who have now come before us, is there an original thought yet to be thunked? I was pondering the whole anti-establishment garb of the last post before I put on the TV and realised that I'm just trying to be Charlie Brooker; and then I go to write some ridiculous fiction, and on proofing my prose I find a failed attempt at impersonating Vonnegut. But I shall resist. I sat through this mornings rush-hour in a Pret-a-Manger, reading and enjoying Morrissey - repeating to myself that I must not mimic Morrissey when I get to writing today. The suits, the financiers, the paper-pushers, hell; conforming to the concept of professional attire, slogging through nine to five to pay for their semi-detached kingdom, for their spoiled shit's gadgets and fabrics, for their red wine and V+ box.

I've pushed paper, but I knew it to be temporary; and the salary was revelatory. Longer still I worked the 9 to 5 in a bank for eight months, and found silver linings where I sold my soul to afford to fly over the Atlantic. Working towards the goal of figuring out a way to not have to do what it was I was, then, doing forever more. Encouraged by a mother who, if not blaming her children - at least blames herself for ever having had children, never escaped the glut of scraping by on a civil servant salary and working tax credits; we know not where I will land, but we both know I must leap. The figuring out led to ambitions in publishing, that's still the goal; but the ambition seems to morph day-by-day, do I want Irreverence Inc. to be a social enterprise encouraging amateur writing and book binding - a resounding no, if they've written it: they can blog it; if they can't blog it: then they probably can't spell - or do I want this to be the beginning of my own publishing house - championing me, me, me and anyone who thinks like me but writes not so well as to show me up, me? The second option (but not the 'me' bit) gives me more control, and might one day see me making a valuable contribution to civilization by championing and mass producing something of great worth, should some bright spark ever choose to write it. The name details the mission, and I liked to think I might write something of the purest irreverence, but my grammar schooling has left me - hopefully not robotic - but a touch more proper than irreverence permits.

One things for sure, this blog thing is falling way short of what I said it would be in that first entry. I think every entry so far has just been preamble.

"Woo-ah, he must say something about something sometime soon.. no.. no.. still just talking about what this blog is and isn't, lord."

I'd like to think it's revealing, not in a tabloid fashion, but in a psychiatric training way. (If you're interested in studying I, provided I is the centre of attention, I will continue to expose myself.)