A lot of my life so far has traumatized me. I can’t quite put my finger on why. I’ve always been afraid of self-expression. I love my family but they’ve never understood me. They still don’t. They would be, perhaps will be, horrified to read this book yet I chose to write it already knowing this so if you are reading, if you haven’t yet disowned me but are perhaps still in the stages of contemplating how to do it with the best effect, likely you couldn’t even bear to read the first page alone without wondering where you’d failed in my upbringing, I am sorry. Not for the book but for the misunderstanding you may take from it. I am not the person you long for me to be. The expectation is not too high, just too different. If we differ in views such as how the world was created, how man evolved and if we’re really all living our lives on a planet turning on its axis hurtling through space, then we are bound to differ in our views on whether fear of exile should be enough to smother any thoughts you may wish to voice which differ from the expected way to be. I have traveled through many emotions whilst writing this book and I wouldn’t have done it unless I thought there was a valid reason to.
Don’t you get a great sense of achievement after putting together a self assembly item of furniture?
You are so pleased with yourself even though all you’ve really done is follow a step by step guide complete with diagrams that Chomski’s chimps could have followed reading them backwards. Brilliant. You sit back and admire your handiwork. It’s bollocks isn’t it. Even so, fills you with an inner pride.
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