I’ve come to learn that you like the gore of my life. Like a car crash, you can’t help but look at my guts spilled across the page.
When I write a little piece on some dish I’ve cooked or something I saw, I hardly get a blip in my stats, but tell you about the gut-wrenching sorrow I’m mired in and your readership abounds.
Does reading this somehow make you feel better, like your life isn’t so f’ed up in comparison? Or is it simply curiosity, watching this disaster unfold in front of you? Am I merely an exhibitionist, wanting you to look?