You cannot drive fast in neutral
I have been quiet for two weeks.
My friends have been asking me why I haven’t written anything in two weeks. Damned if I know. It’s just one of those situations where no matter how many half-written pieces of word-barf I compose, I don’t have the heart to finish said barf.
Writing to me is a lot like sex and I hate giving quickies.
Why should I go through the trouble of writing something that is both clichéd and conventional?
What the fuck am I trying to do here? What is my purpose of exposing my mind to the readership? Is it just the bling bling? Am I all just get riches, get bitches?
I only speak now as a fan of good writing. Writing shouldn’t be a choice between McDonalds and Burger King, I want my writing to be my god that was delicious. And then I arrogantly smile and feel good about my self-esteem momentarily.
Meanwhile, inside my mind, I feel absolutely useless and impotent constantly seeking approval within my writing. The sad reality is my scribbling only serves my ill-fated pursuit of a slap on the back appraisal from some sort of mythical creature that does not exist. I assume the being is a centaur.
Perhaps if a donkey kicked me in the face, I would turn around and say I am such a great writer, thanks a lot, you ass!
Pretty entertaining, right? I chuckled. Oh please chuckle!
I feel like this is all a precursor to my first open mic experience and absolutely bombing in front of an audience who doesn’t care who I am.
Writing brings an experience of terror and must be the reason why all the great writers drank themselves to death. I read Christopher Hitchens’ memoir Hitch 22 and he basically underlines the fact that alcohol is a blessing and curse to a writer. The point being writers seem to embody the fear and loathing part really well, but very few writers ever hit LAS VEGAS!
It’s been hard to concentrate upon and utter my thoughts to my dear reader(s).
I have Megadeth on a reasonable level of volume, my right leg nervously fidgets like I have a spider crawling on it, and all I am missing is chain smoking- anxiety at two in the morning.
There is some nervous fat guy in Rhode Island who isn’t able to finish off his Jerk-Off of the Week columns. Someone inform the Washington Post and the Chicago Tribune.
It’s a bit rich and slightly pathetic; I totally confess to the crime.
I sit here bobbing my head up and down to a song and I wonder if this column makes any sense.
Maybe it shouldn’t?
I was taught in academic MLA styled writing that clarity is the key. Be clear, build your case, and take your time with your wordage. It served me well in academia (it will when I return to it) but I also do enjoy opening up the rubber stopper to my brain and draining the contents onto the parchment. Ok, it’s the 21st century and I never wrote upon parchment. I was going for poetry, you cynical bastard.
Maybe cynicism is my problem. Writing is a process and I need to be a devout believer or sinner in the religion of the scribbles. Write about what I believe in and the rest falls into place, right? What if I am done believing in anything? Have I ever believed in anything? What is my ideology? What are my principles and creeds? Am I doomed to my existence as an idealist nomad?
What can I say? It’s been an odd two weeks of all-consuming apathy. Despite things in my personal life going extremely well, I turn on my Microsoft Word program and I usually only write two words: fuck off.
I swear to god, I am having a Miley Cyrus moment. Recently I talked to my friend Melissa about her, and how the lyrics and ideals of people have changed. The Beatles will sing songs of love and coming together, and Miley sings about how she will party however she wants and no one can stop her. I sit here giving the finger to proverbial man.
If I were a car, the gear shifter is definitely in neutral. My other gears are interesting, funny, angry, and oh my god you are the sweetest man ever. I am going to try like hell to get out of neutral.