Now you may be wondering…

Why I call this the  Peanutgallery. 

This is a once upon a time story…

Once upon a time I was a fresh faced freshman in college with unlimited freedom as far as that goes in a NW Catholic University (you know who you are Pilots!) 

Anyway in that great time of disturbance I turned to the internet as you do. I found a wonderful site which actually published contributors writing. 

So of course I did the thing and agreed. 

I would give them a column every two weeks about how the x-Files is such a wonderful mystical show. Which it is of course. I will never fall out of love with Mulder or Scully. I get to write, they get to publish. No money. It was wonderful. I had an audience. People wrote back. To me. 

Then I had an idea to make it into a column. I wanted to transverse the divide between normal and not normal. And it died right there. 

They were scared. As you are. 

Anyway So when I  was trying to post or publish as a little baby writer I came up with the Peanut Gallery

 And I am so glad I can do so. 

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Here is my starting point:

Here is my place to write stuff:

Right now I am dealing with a lot of anxiety as we all are, every day.  And this makes me feel/ask the following questions:

Does reality exist? 

Are we real?

Am I a real person? 

 Do my wants and needs seem strange and unlikely to other people? 
If I am a real person and my wants and needs are deemed strange and unlikely does this make me a strange and unlikely person? 

(Unlikely in the sense: I just found a diamond in the dustbin) 
Or am I just me myself and I? 

I’m not sure of those answers. 

What I do know is that I have never been quite normal. I’m sure many of my future theoretical readers can relate to that idea. 

I have always been a person who would, for example, would have hysterics at the series finale when the main character never returned home. (Thanks a fucking lot Quantum Leap, Bellasarious Productions). This happened when I was in my teens and I still mourn for Samuel Beckett. The sciencist not the the playwright. Played by Scott Bakula. With Dean Stockwell. 

I have  what you would call a sensitive nature. I feel a great and overwhelming grief we all experience just for being alive. 

My feelings are like a bird’s pin feathers. Close to the surface and easy to bruise. 

So if you want to read more about my life and struggles I will post more. 

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