This whole global village interconnectedness thing is getting me down.
Sometimes I just need a comfy padded sound proof room in which to scream loudly where no-one can hear me and go running off to give someone the gossip.
The internet used to be like that.
I could post something online and it would disappear into the ether.
It was very cathartic and substantially cheaper than paying a disinterested shrink to listen to me whine for an hour.
These days there really is no such thing as anonymity.
It can be quite oppressive when you want to let loose and just vent.
I got taken for a ride. Hence the diatribe.
I ended up looking like a fool – a stupid, gullible, naive fool – and at my age naive doesn’t suit me well – like bubble skirts and plaid.
I wanted to pick the phone and tell someone.
I wanted someone to tell me things would be alright even if they weren’t.
I wanted a shoulder to cry on.
I wanted someone to see the funny side and laugh at the whole stupid mess.
I’d even settle for a painkiller to mute the pounding cacophony in my skull.
What I didn’t want to hear was:
“I told you so”
“You should know better” and
“This surprises you. Why?”
So, I didn’t bother telling anyone after all.
I feel like a helium balloon the day after or the dress lying crumpled and discarded on the floor.
I want a pity party with chocolate fudge ice-cream and Dirty Dancing and Tequila.
Lots and lots of Tequila.
Barring that a pair of super-duper high-heeled leather boots.
So I can kick some well deserving ass.