why insist that every word be planned exactly, no mistakes or extra 'and's or 'the's and that every single sentence has a point and punches the reader right in the goddamn face and delivers powerful messages that make the weak pee themselves in sheer awe of the writer's obvious genius and raw artistic introspective talent? why struggle for hours staring at a blank screen or a college ruled sheet of doodles in green pen that you stole from your sister's desk drawer because really, she always has the better pens, with finer tips that don't bleed when you get bored of paper and start drawing all over your hand even though you know your mother will scold you when you hold her palm for the dinner blessing, just to belch out a page or two about how your first love didn't go right because maybe it wasn't really love and maybe it was just a case of late night indigestion at the wrong time and your brain confused 'bloated' (but not 'with affection') with 'infatuated'? is there really an actual reason besides selfish need for attention and, in turn, approval, from every gob-mouthed human-being with moderate brain function, a passable vocabulary, and a decent attention span?
it always feels like a drunken one-night stand (though how would you know, you're an eighteen year old virgin who hasn't so much even kissed somebody as you've stared at your fist and wondered if you'll ever be desperate enough to try) when you write, doesn't it? you look back after a day or five minutes and then scrabble for purchase on the fake woodgrain of the desk because, oh my baby Jesus, YOU wrote THAT? it's always a massive six-car train wreck of botched similes like "he elusively escaped through the back door like a raccoon hobbles away from a night of scavenging garbage; fat-bellied, black-eyed, and satisfied", or "her corpse exemplified the true meaning of 'Lady in Red'". when you push your hair back from your ashamed, grimy face, you review in horror what it is exactly you thought was so sexy and exhilarating and wild last night: a misguided attempt at intimacy with your muse, when all along you knew you were better off pleasuring your subconscious with a muted Jude Law movie and the fifth of watered-down vodka you stole from the back of your father's booze cupboard (which really only consists of bourbon and the vodka, which was three dollars and bottled in a town half an hour away).
you're so much better off obsessively checking your email--both accounts-- in the hopes of distracting yourself from how little you accomplish in the span of six hours, or making faces at your reflection in the window behind your laptop screen. the former may result in blow after crushing blow of realizing you're really unpopular and the only reason those people on Facebook list you as a friend is because they like watching numbers get bigger, but at least it will keep you from vomiting up whatever your subconscious decides it needs to purge itself of. the latter is because everyone is secretly narcissistic and you are no exception.
but shouldn't you give yourself a break? not everything you write is crap, right? there was that time you had a poem published in your school yearbook. it was nice. it mentioned nature and pretty things and how people should take time out of life to stop and smell the gardenias blooming in the red flower box that hangs from a charming window set in the smooth-polished river stone of that quaint little house on the corner, the one they pass by every day on the way to work but never really notice, except when they do stop they see that the gardenias are actual dead and the lights are never on in that house and one time they looked in the window and saw the bleeding eyes of the ghosts of two children that lived in the house twenty-six years ago but were never able to leave and if your mother saw what you were writing, she'd slap you to little pieces, how could you even let the world see what goes on inside your warped, freak little head?
Created: Oct 26, 2010sexymoustache Document Media