Endeavor to Persevere, N’ Shit.
So it’s been a couple of weeks since I officially handed in my resignation as an “author”-to my buddy Marius, who happens to be about the best writer I know, or have known. But, you know, he’s not the type to beg a motherfucker to reconsider-which isn’t what I was looking for in a typically passive manner anyway. Suddenly, I was feeling this huge weight lifted off me…I was free to not write anymore books that aint nobody fucking reads anyway. It was all liberating and shit, yo.
However, some time has passed and I find myself bored as fuck now. I mean, for all how pointless my authorship endeavor was…it still gave me some of feeling like I was a type of secretly important motherfucker. And it gave me some aim-I mean, I could be “working on my next book” and all that. Instead of indulging in the joy of being a facebook comment troll every time my poor cousin posts another photo from the 1980′s where he looks like Kenny Loggins rocking a most fantastic and well groomed mullet. Or when he publicly gets all stoked on detoxing his pineal gland from the effects of water fluoridation. My cousin is rad and all, but he’s sort of a new age wingnut.
It just gets to the point, since my hanging the writing hat up, you know, where I come home after work and I’m just another dickhead with a blog I never feel like updating. Before, I had an excuse. I mean it was acceptable for me to pay money for a domain on a blog I rarely blogged at, because after all when I did post shit besides stupid videos, photos and food recipes…I was posting drafts from books I was working on and using my blog to organize ideas for books. And somehow, some way, that made me feel a little more important than just being a forty year old ex-convict kitchen worker at a restaurant where I make about twenty grand a year.
I mean, fuck. Everybody has to feel important about some shit, right?
So, I don’t fucking know. I’m not the type to be all “I’m such a tortured artiste” or anything. Yet it’s like I can’t just quit. Not really because I have some imperious desire to create epic literature type faggotry, but because I really don’t have anything else productive to do with my fucking time.
Well, ok, maybe sarcastically congratulating cousin Tom for sporting a fabulous mullet waaay before it was cool, could be considered productive. I mean, I’m sure there’s some kind of movement somewhere to keep facebook feeds mullet free. Like, for serious, we don’t want to see your mullet. Or the bitchen mohawk you had back in ’87 even though you “grew out” of punk. That doesn’t apply to cousin Tom, he’s remained a hard core soft rocker for decades upon decades. But it applies to the entirety of the ex-punk rocker diaspora. Tangent, I know, but I felt it should be said.
Yeah, so anyhow. The busy season is over at work, and my good camera is gone so I can’t go back to getting all fired up about taking pictures till probably spring anyway…so I might as well write a goddam book or something after all, you know?
Thus I’m going to persevere. Gonna just plod ahead. Cause in the final analysis, it doesn’t matter for shit if anybody reads any of it. It certainly doesn’t even matter being an “author” or capital-W Writer. Because for all of how fucking neato it might feel to be able to say you “write books” when someone asks you what you do for a hobby…the fact is at least you’re doing something.