That time again, when Mr Self-Doubt N’ Loathing sets up a campfire in the back yard of my brain

.

It’s that weirdly roughly fortnightly time,

That time when Mr Self-Doubt N’ Loathing sets up a campfire in the back yard of my brain

“Oh, Come On!” I scream

“Why now?!”

Mr Self Doubt just shrugs and says as he lights the fire,

“Why not now!” He states

“But this time,” I reply, “I have an actual gallery showing my stuff next month!”

“So?” Says Mr Self-Doubt.

“So?” I say aghast

There is a brief silence broken only by the crackle of flames on damp wood

“So!” I then say in anger

“So?” He replies flatly, “We both know You are shit, Your stuff is shit, AND that You are worth more to the world as a murder victim than as a living human being”

“You have sold neither art nor writing in nearly a month now… Even with a reduction sale!” He smirks

“But… But… Gallery?!

“That has to count for something…?” I cry

“You mean that SHARED exhibition?”

“Nope, Color me unimpressed,”

“You can shove that flash in a pan up your flabby arse,” He nods

“You, Little underachieving little bugger stain!”

“I have made my camp and I will bloody move on IF and WHEN I am good and ready and not before…”

I storm off into cold darkness and come back with a sharp stick.

Mr Self-Doubt stares at me defiantly in the yellow flickering firelight.

I sit clumsily down and in a sullen tone and say

“Well fuck it!”
“Pass me one of those marshmallows then, you mean old bastard”

.