What compels you to write? Or paint? Sew? Sing? Blog? Why do humans have this need to put something out into the world, knowing that someone, somewhere, is going to have something ugly to say about it?
I wonder if the first cave artist finished up their mammoth drawing, then Gronk came along, stared at it for a second or two, then whipped out his penis and took a leak on it. It has been my experience that the Gronks of the current world have nothing of their own of value to offer the world, which is why they are compelled to piss on everyone who does, right tRump?
All of my life, I've worried about what people think. About my art, my writing, my clotheshairbodyface, opinion, work ethic, you name it. I still haven't reached the point of entirely not giving a rat's ass. But I'm getting there.
Soon, my book will be finished, and I'll have to risk finding out how many Gronks will piss on it. Not quite ready for that.
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