I’ve still not got around to removing this blog from my Twitter feed, and consequently have stopped updating it; it seems incredibly vain to even vaguely assume that anyone I know would want to read my bored ramblings, so I started writing them somewhere completely anonymous instead.
But I suppose now I’m just more bored and frustrated than usual, and since there is no one to talk to, I might as well type at my little Dell. I’m in yet another hotel room, after yet another very long day talking to people (sorry, “stakeholders”), and then feeling somewhat obliged to spend the evening socialising with my colleagues. They’re nice enough, but I do need some time to myself. I also struggle to appreciate that they take my random flippant remarks seriously.
I must learn to play the game, but I suppose I don’t really see the point. What am I working so hard for? It only isolates me more, and the more successful I am, the less attractive I am to the people I am attracted to.
I’m too flighty to pull off the imposing matriarch figure that some people seem to find attactive, and too old to expect anyone else to look after me. So I feel sort of stuck. The people who fancy me seem to think I can fix things for them, they’re attracted to my apparent solidity. As one of my friends said last year, I seem as if nothing would ever upset me. But things upset me all the time, it’s just that as I get older I find it terribly embarrassing to show my weaknesses; it seems childish, and since I can maintain control of myself, I see no reason to let anyone get to know me at all. They will only start along some tortuous route of appearing to like me, only to decide at some point that they want me to want them before they will make any sort of commitment – and since I cannot afford to show my feelings (afraid of a waterfall effect), they eventually move away and start seeing some lovely girl who tells them all about her hopes and dreams, like I used to do.
The resting writer 
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