I wonder what the nature of reality is and if potatoes have anything to do with it. Could you imagine? If potatoes were the center of the universe…
I have a problem. I’m really obsessed with the word “potato.” I just can’t quit it. It owns me. It inhabits my soul. I’m sick from starch.
Anyways, I’ve been reading Stephen King’s book, On Writing. It’s a book on writing, by Stephen King. 😉 I am in some kind of mood today, I tell you what. I have been feeling like testicles in the oven for about five days and then today I finally felt pretty good. Then I got home and started to feel a bit like a toasted teste again but I did a nice workout and a twenty minute meditation. Physically I feel good, now. Mentally, my head is a bit fuzzy but I’m hoping I can clear it up through writing.
My head gets fuzzy from time to time. It’s a very physical feeling. It actually feels congested in between my temples and it’s harder for me to think clearly. My fine motor skills become less fine. It’s easy to notice when I play a video game; it’s as if there’s a barrier between the signal in my brain and my body and I’m always a step behind. I’ve always described it as physical anxiety because I don’t actually feel any sense of worry or mental anxiety most of the time. But I do act anxious when I feel this way.
It could be my body trying to cope with some inner anxiety in my subconscious that I haven’t addressed. Who knows. I’ve tried to meditate on that. It has helped very occasionally. It mostly just helps to be balanced and healthy. Having a good sleep routine, exercising, eating healthy, not indulging in METH. I’m kidding. I don’t do meth. I’m not a pussy. I do crack.
Kidding, again. I just do the weeeeeed. I drink very rarely. I haven’t had any alcohol in about two months, as far as I can remember. I mean who knows maybe I’ve been blacked out for years and I’m just delusional. That’s certainly possible. I did make a rule lately that has been quite helpful for me regarding the green reefer. My only rule is that I can’t get high two days in a row. This stops me from forming a habit or becoming dependent on the famous flower. Plus, I noticed if I get high several days in a row and then I stop, I get depressed the next day. It’s usually only that day, but it’s still one too many days to be depressed when it can be avoided.
Boy that was a tangent. Welcome to the inner workings of my life. Hope you enjoyed your stay. That’ll be $169. Ha, only if. Could you imagine if you could charge people to bitch about your life? Whoa, famous people should do that. I wonder how much someone would pay Justin Bieber to sit in front of them and have him bitch about his life for an hour. It would be like therapy without a therapist. Just a weird person who would pay to hear someone bitch about their life. Look at me go, putting that entrepreneurial hat on. Jesus tits in my ass what a word that is. Entrepreneurial. Sounds like an upscale European car dealership.
ANYWAYS. I’m reading Stephen King’s book about writing. It’s very good. I’ve never read any of his novels but I admire the man quite a bit. Increasingly so as I work my way through his book, On Writing, on writing. Okay, that’s the last “on writing” joke I’ll make. Fantastic. Splendid. Nebulous.
Stephen King writes every day. I believe it’s 2,000 words per day no matter what and no matter how long it takes him. That’s the kind of commitment you need to be successful. As a writer, as a plumber, as a whore… Okay, maybe not that last one. What constitutes a successful whore, anyway? And by whore I mean a literal prostitute, not your sister.
Sometimes I write things and realize that I have a family and wonder what they think of me when they read my stuff, if they do indeed read my stuff. But that’s no way to think. We can’t worry about what people think. We must be free in our art. I mean what I ‘m doing right now is barely art but it’s fine. Everything’s totally fine.
The point I’m trying to make here is that I’m trying to… wait, no. I’m not trying. I’m going to make a commitment similar to Stephen King’s 2,000 words a day. He’s a novelist, so it makes sense for him to shoot for a word count. Me? Not a novelist. I mean I am working on a novel but it’s not my main focus. I like to write jokes, ramblings such as this, silly stories, articles, and potato. Fuck. Get out of here, potato.
So, I’m not Stephen King and it doesn’t make sense for me to shoot for a word count because I can get to 2,000 words doing this in under an hour but if I was working on jokes it would take me weeks to get to 2,000 words of fleshed out jokes. Therefore, it is best I use the measurement of time. So, my goal (to start) is to write for two uninterrupted hours per day. Unless I have to poo. Which I do. Be right back.
My stem-mom was watching a Hallmark movie in the family room and all I heard was one of the actors say “he used to love to roast chestnuts.” I don’t what irked me about that statement, but it was something. I don’t know what to make of it. It just seems to fake to be believable. “He used to love to roast chestnuts.” Really? He used to just sit there and roast fucking chestnuts all day having the time of his life? What is he, Santa Claus? Chestnuts. I’ll show you my chest nuts!
See, this is why we write uninterrupted. My undiagnosed ADD doesn’t do well with distractions. So, I’m going to write for two hours each day. That includes Tuesday’s when I have to get up at four and work a ten hour shift. Which seems to be fine until I take an afternoon nap and get out of whack and become entirely monstrous.
This is going to be good. I need a strict writing routine. I have two months until I quit my flexible, fairly well-paying, not very difficult job so that I can drive around the country and pursue my dreams. It seems pretty stupid on the surface, given we are in a pandemic. However, I think it’s also silly to wait for “the perfect time” to pursue the life we want. There is no perfect time. I’ve realized that I have been delaying myself from achieving true happiness for quite some time, and the only way to not do that anymore is to jump right in. Pandemic or not.
I made the decision to work through the end of the year quite some time ago. I developed a plan to save money so I could quit my job and pursue writing and stand-up comedy in a different city. Then the pandemic happened and I said I was considering working maybe until April since I probably wouldn’t be able to do much comedy before then anyway.
But I realized again that I was delaying. I have the money saved, and even if I can’t do comedy, there’s no shortage of work that needs to be done. Between working on my website, writing jokes, writing a novel, writing blog posts, studying music and writing lyrics, practicing my comedy sets, and masturbating, there is a lot of work that needs to be done. So I said that’s it, I’m done! At the end of the year, I’m done.
My dad obviously wants me to keep working because it makes his life ten thousand times easier. My father owns a gas station and my job has essentially been to step in and run the place. I have a lot of help, so it’s not too much responsibility, but it’s the same thing every day and I’m tethered to that place as long as I work there. I can’t just up and leave whenever I desire. People always assume that I’m going to take it over because that’s the way it has looked to any outsider, and it would appear to be a silly idea for me not to. It’s a successful business, I would make a lot of money, the employees and I have a great relationship, and it’s already established.
And when people ask me if I’m taking it over, I always say no. And they always look confused, and then I say something like “it just isn’t for me,” because I don’t want to explain to someone the entire inner workings of my psyche. I’ve wondered in the past if I was being entitled by making that decision, denying something that my father worked so hard to build. But I realized that was a misinterpretation. My father worked hard to build a successful life so he and his family could be happy. His work at the station allows me to be happy by pursuing what makes me happy, not what made him happy. He already lived that life.
It can be a bit of a challenge, because my father doesn’t really understand my personality. He’s very blue-collar, get up early, work hard, take the job that provides security, and don’t let go of it. Which I totally respect. We are very similar in that we like to get up early and work hard, but our minds are completely different. To me, creativity and foreign experiences are my lifeblood. To him, those things carry little meaning in his life. So, there’s a disconnect there.
I have definitely been held back to a degree by trying to please my father. He’s the best guy I know and I love him to death so the last thing I want to do is disappoint him, but I remember the idea clicking for me when I was listening to a lecture by Jordan Peterson and he talked about how you can’t become your own man until the death of your father ensues. This doesn’t mean a literal death. It can for many men, but I don’t want to wait until my father dies to really become my own man.
Instead I have to move past the attachment to my father in order to blossom as my own man. For me, this means I must move away. And that’s what I’m doing! Yay me! Ha, we are almost at 2,000 words. Eat that Stephen King! Awesome. Phenomenal. Thanks for coming to my therapy session.