That’s the problem. You see, sometime last September, I realized something it takes most men a lifetime to realize: I don’t really need to have sex to survive. If we’re being direct, and I come from that ever-masculine wing of the writing spectrum, that’s how I feel. So, you see, none of this is really that important. In fact, I’m just waiting for you to tell me to leave.
Okay, that’s only true on some days. This extends to other areas of my life also. I’ve realized I don’t need much of anything – the whole idea of happiness is some kind of materialistic, post-modern charade. And don’t even bother calling me on the quite obvious contradiction in that last probably poorly constructed sentence, because to be very honest, and I’m being honest, trust me, I just don’t give a damn, man. You say you’re on the verge of sending that pink slip down the line, and I’m supposed to begin the boot quaking. I know how this is supposed to work, but for whatever reason, my boots just don’t seem to have much quake left in them. I’m fine with the B+. I haven’t been ecstatic in a number of years. But I’m fine. Fine is perfectly okay with me.
The ironic thing about this entry in what is quickly becoming a public journal for me is that none of this is very direct at all. So, whatever. I don’t care about that either. Somewhere along the way, Motivation and its rangy cousin Determination slipped on out the back door and left me here brooding and moping and sometimes sulking and destroying and rebuilding and then destroying again and not caring. Don’t look at me. Hemingway did that shit and people worshiped him. I mean the sentence structure. He could string a bunch of sentence fragments together into one big sentence, separated only by the word and, for days – and endured what consequence, international fame, immortality, madness? That’s what I’m talking about. Hemingway was one of those men that just didn’t give a damn, and look what happened to him. Maybe I’m wrong about all this.
So anyway, I’ve been thinking about starting a blog, I mean a serious one, but I can’t find the motivation. For one, I can’t talk myself out of the whole idea that it’s all a very vain practice to imagine you have something to say that people might want to hear – but hey, let them judge for themselves, and they will, or more than likely, they won’t, because they’ll never read one word of this convoluted blog that I’ll never get around to creating. Don’t get me wrong. I get it. I don’t imagine that everyone out there that starts a blog is some narcissistic asshole. I mean, a few dozen of you probably have something meaningful to say. Maybe I do too, really, I don’t know. The problem is, I just don’t give a damn. So nothing happens.
I think I’ve read, I don’t know, three books this summer. This was supposed to be the summer I became the avid reader I know I have to be to become any kind of person worth talking to – hey, that’s elitist, but you can imagine how I feel about that at the moment. Year two of graduate school, and sure, I’ll get through it, B+ grade point average and all, and I could probably even move on to the Ph.D. and eventually go teach at some community college in a rural area somewhere, and I’ll write short stories because I don’t have the internal gumption to create a longer and more deeply fulfilling experience – and I do realize this is all getting very erotic now. That, all of this, can be summed up by the title of this waste of time I’m etching into digital stone here.
Really, the whole point of this is simple: I take the time here every few months to publicly, okay not so publicly, vilify myself for my personal failures in hopes that it will ignite in me that fire of larger purpose that I once thought I understood. I have a lot of issues with myself – I still own too much shit, I watch too much television, I sit on the computer reading political gossip for far too long, I don’t go to the gym often enough, I don’t simply jog the streets of the nice neighborhood I call home but instead I pay $30 a month to toll away on a machine, I go out to eat too much, I spend too much time thinking about irrelevant things, I don’t write enough, I don’t write at all, and I certainly don’t read enough, among other grievances. So, really, I’m just calling myself out here. It has to be done, you see, and I’m sorry you had to go along for the ride. There’s really no reason for you to peer into my id here with me, so you can move along any time. Honestly. I guess I should’ve came off the line with that one.
What I’m trying to say is, there’s no point to any of this. For more information, see the title.
