i wanted to write

ugh.

what do i have for you today? maybe some more curse words, maybe not. god. shit. next time those two words are next to eachother i promise it won't be tourette's. fuck. goddamnit. i wanted to write. i wanted to write all my life. now i don't want to do anything. i want to lay down next to kathrine and cook food and play video games and read a hundred pages every two weeks. this is me and this is who i am.

i have no grand ideas.
i am out of the mart of intellectual discourse.
people buy food and i make sure they have the food they want to buy.

i say "DO SOMETHING" to every reflection i come across; the milk in the cereal bowl, the bathroom mirror, the pukewater in the toilet, but it always comes back the same.

"why?"

the "why" game at 27 and i keep getting older. i like the people i work with. i need a little more money, but who doesn't?

why am i not writing? i am not writing because writing is tepid and my words are bland and even if my water broke with the next great american novel it would die of SIDS if it didn't die laughing at the doctor that smacked it's ass.

oh but lookie i'm writing about not writing. oooh irony! fuck you. stop reading. stop reading everything. move to china or azerbaijan where the silly marks are just silly marks and don't have the power to start wars or hurt peoples' feelings or flare up your bile duct. stop waiting to be entertained or wooed by intellectuals. stop looking for references to great books you were forced to read. do you remember how old you were when you realized the best thing you could for yourself was to learn to appreciate and admire what everybody already appreciated and admired?

yeah, that mona lisa is really something. but i'd rather watch an animated gif of something dirty or a twenty seven second porno clip on redtube than bear the unamused smirk of renaissance nobody. not that i don't identify with the sentiment. what does that make me? what does that say about me? i'll take it. i might even tattoo it on my arm.

there is a point to doing things even if you'll never do them better than someone else. shouldn't the world have stopped writing plays after shakespeare wrote the tempest? some might agree. but then we wouldn't have... y'know... those other guys who wrote plays too.

there is a point.

i will never invent a more efficient way to heat our homes, but i might be able to start a fire that could get us through december.

here's to getting through december.

special thanks go to merle haggard by way of john mccain's ipod (according to blender magazine)