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  • Listen to me. I have something to tell you.

    Deep within my soul is an insistent need to communicate. I must express myself. I have to share my knowledge with the rest of the world. It is not an option for me. I am compelled by an invisible internal force; resistance is futile.

    Don’t blame me, God made me this way. It’s not my fault. I am sorry to be such a pain in the ass, but, I believe my purpose is to bring forth the message. I write, I speak, I draw and I paint. I take photographs. The medium is not important. The message is.

    In my self exile from Facebook (day5), I have realized why the social networking website has such a hold on me. It is like a narcotic. I am addicted. It fits the hole in my soul perfectly. I must write and it provides me a huge audience. I feel helpless in its grip.

    This is nothing new. I’ve needed an audience for half a century. Way, way back in junior high school I created my own comic books. I created super hero characters, devised storylines, drew the booklets that you see above and distributed them to my classmates. The other kids loved my stories. (Cowbird knows that I cannot resist. When someone clicks the heart icon and sends me an email alerting me that my story has been loved, I fall onto the floor in a quivering mass of gelatin. I get all mushy inside. When somebody loves my story, they - by extension - are loving me.)

    At the core of my compulsion to write is the need to be loved. I suspect the same is true for you.

    I just want you to know that when I love a story, I really mean it.
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