Well now, I should be just ashamed of myself. I’ve gone and deserted my online obligations as an aspiring writer. The online universe is somehow missing me I feel, (yeah right), so now I must come back. Hopefully in the time I’ve been gone the internet community didn’t miss me too much. Okay, enough false bravado, onwards to better things.
I feel delightful right now. Really. I feel like life could in fact get a whole shit ton better, but that’s okay. I could be richer, so that my electric bill wouldn’t fall behind another fucking time this year. I could be prettier, so I wouldn’t feel so awkward and silly when I try on clothes or look at magazines. I could be more famous, so that so many people know who I am that I don’t even have to try to have quality friendships because I’m so famous it wouldn’t even matter. But you know, I’ve begrudgingly accepted that those things are not for me. They probably never will be. Because I’m a fucking writer. Because somehow, my brain processes me spending too much time smoking pot and thinking of story development as a better source of life income then me actually doing a lot of work towards something. Yet, somehow it feels like a lot of work anyways. I find myself looking around at my apartment and wondering how I can get the fine things other people enjoy so casually. But then I remember why I don’t try to get them. Because at heart, I know I am greedy, and one thing will never stop at one thing. So, I commit myself to the one thing I can always get more of, it feeds me, satisfies the never ending craving for more things that are “mine”. I commit myself to the written word, and it makes me feel better. Not perfect, but better. And sometimes I have so many words in my life that I drown in them, and it leaves me drifting to the bottom of everything I know, and for a moment, I’m just in the salty knowledge of everything in my world, and I feel good. I feel too good to ever drag myself back out. So I just sink, further and further into my words and my books, and my small quiet life of loud thoughts. I sit in my too small room in my too small apartment and I can’t help but think, “This is the shit that killed Hemingway.”