Day Three

Wow, this is hard. I was crazy busy today. I have so many things to do. I don't want to think about them. I also slept in, which was a bummer. But it was because I was getting laid, which kinda neutralizes the consequences.

I think I take things too seriously. I'm just not sure how else to get what I want. Then again, I don't really know what I want.  I only know what I don't want. I don't want to be dependent on anyone or anything. I don't want to get stuck. I don't want to fail.

I think that failure thing is kind of keeping me from figuring out what I really want.  I'm not really sure how to become ok with failure.  It's really not ok in any situation that matters, but if I can't get over the possibility of failing, I can't get myself into a winning position. God, I suck at this writing shit.

Tomorrow I'm going to work really hard, and then this weekend I'm going to figure  out how to stop working so much.

Day 2

I nearly forgot my new found obligation today. There must be some force out there needing me to comply with my calling because this is the second night in a row that I've returned here from the comforts of my covers. I'm going to call this force 'Frustration'. It is nature's means of reconciling who I am with who I feel I should be. It's a rather depressing evolution. Life is the eventual dying out of frustration. I guess that's not too bad. Tomorrow I'll try to do better.

Daily Post Challenge

I often like to stumble. When so engaged, I often stumble upon articles about writing. I usually read these articles because I like to fancy myself a writer, which is at best premature considering that, not only have I never been published, but I've never brought a single piece of work to fruition. Part of me would like to elaborate upon my impotence, but this is not suppose to be a rant.
What I'm getting at is a recurring piece of writing advice that has always struck me as being key: write everyday, no matter what. I've been meaning to make this a personal vendetta for an embarrassing amount of time now, but tonight I think I'll own it. It's become clear to me that my time as an individual might be very brief, and since I'm damned terrible at 'enjoying' my allotted existence, I might as well spend it like those prehistoric cavemen from the natural history museums: etching my consciousness onto a time-resistant medium.

I like to write. I fantasize about it regularly. But for years I've experienced fierce internal resistance. Some terrible combination of ineptitude and perfectionism has made the act of actually sitting down and giving form to my thoughts an excruciating experience. It's really not until this moment that I've been able to come to terms with the limitations of my talent. There's little I can do about my skill set, other than practice, of course (bleh). The pride however, can be more easily calibrated. What, after all, is more detrimental to a writer's hubris than poor work? And since my intrinsic capacity prevents me from producing any alternative, I'm guaranteed to succeed :)

Liberated by the abolition of standards, I present the following:

It took me an hour to write this much. I'm afraid to spend too much more time on a single post, let alone the first of my 'Daily Post Challenge' because I don't want to set the bar too high, lest I intimidate Future Me and sabotage this whole project. I will try to briefly touch on the source of my midnight restlessness. It's the same inspiration that last drove me to the keyboard a few months ago (that post was never published): emotional turmoil.

I am not comfortable with emotion. It doesn't mesh well with my core values or my sense of self. However, I am by no means impervious. For the last 4 or 5 months I've been navigating a rather drawn-out 'breakup'. As far as these things go, I don't feel this to be a particularly dramatic affair. It is however, my first official 'breakup'; and I'm finding it less-than-invigorating.

Aside from the loneliness, which honestly I don't find all that foreign, I think the most disorienting aspect of the separation process is the ego-blow. I never realized how vain I was until I witnessed someone with whom I had shared a not-insignificant portion of my soul enjoying their life despite my absence. Throughout the course of the relationship I had imagined myself the progressive, self-affirmed independent; calling the shots and breaking hearts. And yet here I am agonizing over unreciprocated texts and creeping on facebook. What happened?

I know it's just a phase, a temporary product of change, and maybe I'm exaggerating slightly for irony's sake; but I don't rightly know how to express the uneasiness I feel. The loss of confidence.

I'm running over two hours. At least I can thank my emotions for this post. And this project. Tomorrow Me, you're up.

Solipsism

I used to think I was pretty popular because I had so many profile views.

After a while I started wondering why none of my many readers ever commented on my blog. Upon posting a new blog I would check back several times a day, waiting for comments. Always there was at least one more visitor, but never any comments. Maybe I intimidate them I thought. I should allow more room for input and dialog.

I tried being more inviting, more controversial. I even included obvious spelling and grammar errors in hopes of baiting a grammar nazi.

Nothing.

I'd try various trolling strategies, manipulative bids for attention, shameless provocations; I pulled off such reaction-seeking stunts that even the local fox news would've blushed.

I knew I must be on to something because the more time i spent on my blog, editing my antics, reading and rereading and refreshing and checking, trolling and speeling; the more visitors I'd get viewing my blog.

Why won't anyone comment? I was disparaged by the most apathetic set of readers ever to browse a blog.

Eventually I realized that one's own traffic is counted amongst the 'visitor views' and that, in fact, I was my only reader.

I guess in a metaphysical sense, extraordinary self-obsession can be qualitatively construed as being 'super popular'.

Hey, Fuck you. I can see what you're thinking. More blubbering projections of judgement underscoring self-absorbed insecurities. Isn't that what it tastes like? Haven't we phased through these years already? I can do this all morning long apparently. It's like nasal congestion that was there all along but you never noticed because it only affected one nostril at a time. I'm not going to cry anymore you baby. I am not. am not. no, you are. I don't care. I don't care. Sticks and Stones.. I don't care. na na na na na.

Do you know me? Do you? does this help? does it? can I? can it? can? baking soda.

plastic dispensers of cotton candy and Alcatraz. I know what you're thinking. Don't put on me! yo just mad 'cause I'm stylin' on you. stylin on you stealin cookies and fuck mothering shit. pissing contest potty mouth portray parfait poop pleaxcuse me pixie pups. fiscal misanthropes pipsy pizza poop party parter pithy piscaline popsiclstandcourse lizday day to say say say something said something nothing silence says. silence says speak. speak speak speak silence says speak silence speak silence speak to me say something something something something something no no not anymore I've had but she said it why would why no I wont hard hard hat hippy hat hipster man song dilian john dorian john sponge sponge john sponge john spare pants spares ants pants pants plastic pants please

I have to write some paragraphs for my BSSM creative writing class.

Assignment #1 - Why do you write?

(disclaimer: the term "man" is used through-out the essay in its figurative, non-gender-specific sense, and purely for its rhetorical aesthetic)

"But what is this urge not only to write, but to publish one's work? Besides the pleasure of being praised, there is the thought of communicating with other souls capable of understanding one's own, and thus of one's work becoming a meeting place for the souls of all men...Living in the minds of others is what is so intoxicating."

-Delacroix, in his Journals.
-Stolen from Kristen's blog, the 'About' section.


Connection is a fundamental facet of human existence. There are few forces stronger than man's urge to enter meaningfully relationship. To know and to be known. For myself, there is no better medium to both express and fulfill this intrinsic need than the written word. My thoughts become my identity, and their lyrical instantiations become expressions of myself, instances of who I am, of the most cherished gift I can offer to either God or man. My writing becomes my worship, a sacrifice of myself in deference to my creator, an open and vulnerable invitation to any who'd deign to know me. I write because I am; because I am with Him, and because I am with you.


Assignment #2 - Write two paragraphs respectively describing desirable and undesirable emotions

Paragraph 1: Exhilarating Anticipation

Red hot blood surges like a ruthless tide, scalding the cheeks and drying the tongue. Lungs shrivel into tightly wound receptacles of expectation. Ears overcome by deafening heartbeats. One throbbing cadence tells enough time to enact an entire lifetime of possibilities. Each rhythmic undulation echoes across vast arrays of unarticulated hopes and horrors. This is an important moment. This is the pulse of life. After this moment... Existence.

Paragraph 2: Melancholy

I feel like I've been here before. This must be where I live. I thought I had moved, but I'm here again. It's like a bad dream that waits for me every morning. Today I labor. Tonight I sleep. Tomorrow will turn out to be Today disguised as the future. But when do I get to cry? But why should I want to cry? But oh I want to cry! Because to cry is to die and death is this dream's only respite. But when do I get to cry? Today I labor and Tonight I sleep.

Being Awesome Instead

I have this condition where I feel sad all the time. I forget what it's called, but I've started taking drugs that are supposed make me feel otherwise. I've had this particular affliction for a while now. As long as I can remember in fact. And from what I've been able to surmise, it has something to do with thinking. Whether its the way that I think, or how often; my contemplation seems to culminate in dejection. Or vice versa.

To be honest I can't say that I mind it all that much. The perpetual gloom facilitates an anomalous sense of identity and self-value. I don't know that I'd even bother with corrective therapy but for some cosmic interdiction in which I became host to the siren notion of achievement. I've since garnered a collection of goals and agendas that somehow nestled themselves deep within the recesses of my egoic fancy.

Thus, upon suspicion that a perennially melancholy existence might not lend itself to the realization of my numerous ambitions, I began a journey to excise my angsty preoccupations and actuate my inner Übermensch. This blog is supposed to express tribute to that journey, as well as document its progress, but at the moment I seem to be struggling to connect this action with its purpose.

Tonight, inspired by the words and character of Barney Stinson and aided by a delightful concoction of psychotropics, I've taken another step on my journey to self actualization. Though since I started writing this post I seem to have forgotten many of the details and lost sight of the precise nature of this monumental step, I feel like posting these words somehow still instantiates its existence.

Here's to being awesome instead.