Nothin’ In My Head 

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I’ve only been doing this thing for a week. Somehow it feels longer than that. 

I feel like an itch has been scratched. I feel like I ain’t got no itches to scratch today. None. Is that a sign of trouble? 

I guess boredom, shit. No. This isn’t boredom. I don’t know what this is. I swear I’ve been aware of a keener sense of myself lately. No matter how keen your sense gets, you still find that your sense isn’t all the way calibrated. There are uncharted waters within you. 

Maybe this is just being chill. Maybe this is how most people are. 

There is another state of being I sometimes find myself in though it is rare. This is the state of being unfuckwittable. I’ll try and describe that to you some other day because right now there is no fucking way I’m going to be able to do that justice. 

I can’t do most things justice. 

I wasn’t even going to try this today. I was just going to leave it but that seemed like a bad idea. 

I sit here at my desk. Daily Mix 3 playlist from Spotify is blaring and I keep hitting repeat on a particular song. I don’t know why. Not in Love by Crystal Castles. Sometimes I kinda nod my head to it and sometimes I low-key white boy dance to it. The words don’t really speak to me. I can’t really speak to the beat or the musical qualities of this composition because I’m laughably unqualified. 

I find myself thinking of ending montages in TV episodes. Ya know, shots of the characters with little or no dialogue in the closing minutes of the episode as some song plays. 

Yeah. That’s it. Drive safe. 

I sorta tried. Sorta. 

Dad bod and the mind of a philosopher king.

It’s.. hey. I don’t really think I’m a king. It’s me being  braggadocious. 

Why I’m Not a Good Writer

It’s tempting as hell to just half-ass this and say that at least I tried today.

This is one of those days where I feel like I have absolutely nothing to say. In fact, I don’t know that I ever have anything to say. I think to myself sometimes that I will run out of things to say.

It’s not the end of the world if I do. It’s not like I’m needing to do this to pay the bills. I do need to do this though. It seems to make life a little more bearable. I feel more present. I feel like I’ve done something with my day. My head feels a little less foggy.

At this point, this is little more than a bit of self-help.

My pledge is this: Write even if my head feels dull and even if I feel no hate, love or any fucking thing at all. Just have to do it. It will probably be shit but even in the midst of the shit, there have to be moments of perfection, right?

So, I’m not a terrible writer. I know I’m not. I’m not a particularly good writer either. Why? I’m gonna tell you.

I don’t do a ton other than work, play some games and sleep. I don’t have a ton of mileage on me. I haven’t done a ton with my life. I’m short on experiences. Sometimes I think maybe I should just go to bars and talk to people, anybody and see what the fuck happens. A friend of mine told me he is driving across this fucked up country of ours just for the hell of it. I need to do that but the thought of doing something like that scares the shit out of me. I got serious social anxiety. I’ve never quite been at peace with the fact that I’m a human being. Is it as weird for you as it is for me? Probably not in the exact same way.

I’ve already mentioned I’m deficient as hell when it comes to focus and self-discipline. Finishing a book is a near impossible feat for me these days. In fact, the other day, I thought maybe I’d read Umberto Eco’s essay Ur-Fascism which I guess is about the qualities of eternal fascism. Fascism is ultra relevant these days. So many countries on this earth seem to be lurching towards it. I’ve tried getting through the essay twice but without success. My just wanders. I need to read more. What should I be reading? Not real sure but I’m almost positive that I should be reading more.

I don’t know a lot. I’ve got a vague idea about a lot of things but there is not a single subject on the face of this earth that I can call myself an expert on. You can see that in my screed entitled ‘What I See.’ Most of that flowed from emotion. I was talking about the real world so I feel that perhaps I needed to show my work a bit more and maybe cite sources like I was back in school or something.

I get these ideas for creative pursuits and then I just abandon them. I’ve started two short-lived podcasts. One was a political show that I began in the wake of Trump’s election and another was just me talking about random things or.. something. Who the fuck knows what I was doing with the second one? I don’t follow through. I’m a flaky son of a bitch.

I’m lazy and I don’t put in work.

There are probably other reasons why I’m not a particularly good writer but those are the most fatal symptoms in my estimation.

In the back of my mind, I have to wonder if this is just filler to put off going into the stuff that really makes me look like a god damn loser.

We’ll get there though.

https://youtu.be/8hTRb-OQdKU

This track always goes right to my heart for some reason.

“The borders should be illegal instead of the people / That were here before the Bible and all of its sequels.”

Imagination of a boy

I am the imagination of a boy 

too old to be a boy 

I'm cool as fuck 

mysterious

my soul tastes like sugar, baby

mainline me maybe 

break me 

like a third world insurgency 

and i'll write shitty punk songs about you 

that i'll stick in the mouth of some dude 

I play on Twitter 

cuz normie Twitter is lame 

and so is this life thing

c'mon, let's be real 

in the only way possible 

at the hour of late night radio in the 90s 

about psychedelics and demons 

in the only way possible 

when you're so lonely 

that you do this shit 

life and it's lameness 

tell me what the fuck that means to you 

and maybe i'll fall in love with you 

and we can be scared together 

and righteous 

and kinky 

we'll text each other and play cooler versions of ourselves to each other 

and it'll be hot as fuck 

and that'll be a thing that happened 

be one of those things you worship 

and don't remember quite right 

because 

sometimes that's all you got keeping you alive. 

It's a weird life. That's all it is.

I sit down here and I try this. Type my thoughts. Try to dress ‘em up like Fonzie or a monk who just got it. Thing is, usually I’m going nowhere. I’m not Fonzie. I’m not a monk. I’m not the hero. The world is full of people who think they need to be the big-dicked hero. 

We. We>me. 

I say that as I tickle these here keys all alone. Are we all these people having heroic fantasies all alone? We’re all Luke Skywalker staring at the horizon. Maybe it’s time to cut that shit out. Maybe we need to cut it out because it’s dangerous. 

I remember. Nah, I half-remember. Shit, maybe this never happened. I remember a Saturday Night Live Christmas parody. It was a parody of those holiday specials with the clay people. I dunno. Do you know what I’m talking about? Aight. There was a line that stuck with me. I don’t remember the context. I just remember the line, “It’s not about you, you douchebag.” 

IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU, YOU DOUCHEBAG. 

Maybe I’m way off here but that’s the heart of pure, undefiled religion right there. Of course, what happens with religion is people get transfixed by the messianic figures. That’s all they see. They try to see themselves in the messiahs. 

Went somewhere. Somewhere. Got lost there though. Might not be able to go any farther. 

Not interesting

I need to get the fuck outta here. 

These roommates really are not working out. 

Like, being here irritates me. 

I need to be alone. Truly alone sometimes. 

I cannot be hearing the bickering and arguing that is the byproduct of your fucked up, sad marriage. 

I can’t come “home” at the end of my 9 to 5 what a way to make a living day to scary cable news propaganda. That shit gets to me on a deep level. Like, maybe it’s the holy spirit helping me recognize with banal evil is. Seriously. 

I probably need to be sitting down and talking to someone. I don’t want to take medication cuz it does nothing. The only drugs I’ll be taking are for the fun of it. Seriously. I’m only going to alter my mind with drugs if I feel like it. Not doing it on doctor’s orders if I can help it. Fuck that. Real talk though. I need to be talking to a professional probably. Don’t worry too much. I just need the perspective of someone with a more level-head than I’ve got. 

Aight. Back to our regular scheduled programming. 

I find lately that I’m on a different frequency than the place I come from. I’m acutely aware of this recently. 

I can’t stay here. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know who or what would have me. 

I haven’t written much here but I’ve been expressing myself elsewhere under my own name at times. I’ve got to be expressing something. I’ve got to believe what I’m expressing. I’ve got to believe in my ability to express. I’ve got to believe that I can get through. 

Right now, this is all I can manage to say. 

God damn it. It’s just too hot these days. Everything will melt into nothing some day. Some of us will be left alive while we watch the rich and the powerful launch themselves into space to escape this rock. 

Or maybe not. Who knows? As the great Yogi Berra said, “It’s hard to make predictions, especially about the future.” 

My brain is fuzzy. My brain is like a huge bag of cotton balls. I just want to go into a dim room and drift off into dreamland. Maybe I’ll see you there. I’m making my peace with this day. I’m ready to say goodbye to it. Just let it go wherever days go to die. This day was unremarkable. It did not offend me but I sure as hell will not leave flowers on its grave. Of course, Monday will pull a Lazarus and come forth again. Jesus is too righteous to take bribes.

I’ve failed at a lot of things. That’s not me beating up on myself. That’s just a simple statement of fact. I haven’t really tried sincerely at a lot of things. I’ve half-assed a lot of things. 

Debating is for nerds. I can’t do it. 

I feel like I’m barely not a normie. That’s a weird place to find yourself. The weirdos weird me out way too fucking much and the normies just fucking bore me. 

Actually, most everyone bores me. Married folk. Single folk. Serial killer groupies. Lana Del Rey fans. Trekkies. Gamers. BDSM freaks. 

WHAT THE HELL YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT, MAN? YOU DON’T TALK TO ANYBODY. 

Just vibin’, man. Relax. Just playing with these here words. That’s all I’m doing. It’s like that guy who sits alone in his apartment and strums his guitar.