Man Alive ....
I turn around, and already, damned near two weeks have passed. It is unkindly true when they say the older you get, the quicker time flies. It's unfair to the point of sucking donkey nutz.
Do I feel bad for not having posted anything for a long time? Not really, because I imagine that my website is either a jumping off point on the way to one of the more interesting porn sites out there, or a winding down point when there is absolutely nothing left to look at before you pass out from sheer data overload.
Along with the above realization comes another: my 'talent' for writing (blogs, stories, wtf ever) is in direct proportion to how happy I am. The happier I am, the less inclined I to write anything. I am still a bitter, disgruntled, almost 'postal' person, but the vivre that has left phospor streaks of rage on monitors across the world (it could happen) is harder to muster. Along with that is the shocking loss of aptly turned phrases, of the most prosiac prose, the finest fillibustering. This is not the first time in two weeks that I've tried to sit down and write something, but it IS the first time I've managed to get something down.
They say that artists must suffer for the art. I think it's true, and equally loathe and love it; I love writing more than anything else in the world (except pizza, doughnuts, Pepsi, pretty girls, good movies, bad movies, video games and pizza), but the sheer weight of carrying so much angst around in order to create is a frickin' Herculean burden. No wonder so many creative people go apeshit and try to kill themselves. It's not because they're unhappy, but because they're not unhappy enough. They're trying to ramp their creative juices up to the point where they can actually create something other than a great big pile of crap.
Now, dear readers. don't imagine for a moment that I am even considering something like this, cuz on a far more grounded level, there is one very important thing to remember:
Yes, writers don't write because they want to, but because they must, but a starving, half-crazed artist can't buy pornography OR pizza, and I'll choose the latter over the former until the pressure in my head gets too much, and then I'll free the voices in my head with a trusty Black and Decker special.
Do I feel bad for not having posted anything for a long time? Not really, because I imagine that my website is either a jumping off point on the way to one of the more interesting porn sites out there, or a winding down point when there is absolutely nothing left to look at before you pass out from sheer data overload.
Along with the above realization comes another: my 'talent' for writing (blogs, stories, wtf ever) is in direct proportion to how happy I am. The happier I am, the less inclined I to write anything. I am still a bitter, disgruntled, almost 'postal' person, but the vivre that has left phospor streaks of rage on monitors across the world (it could happen) is harder to muster. Along with that is the shocking loss of aptly turned phrases, of the most prosiac prose, the finest fillibustering. This is not the first time in two weeks that I've tried to sit down and write something, but it IS the first time I've managed to get something down.
They say that artists must suffer for the art. I think it's true, and equally loathe and love it; I love writing more than anything else in the world (except pizza, doughnuts, Pepsi, pretty girls, good movies, bad movies, video games and pizza), but the sheer weight of carrying so much angst around in order to create is a frickin' Herculean burden. No wonder so many creative people go apeshit and try to kill themselves. It's not because they're unhappy, but because they're not unhappy enough. They're trying to ramp their creative juices up to the point where they can actually create something other than a great big pile of crap.
Now, dear readers. don't imagine for a moment that I am even considering something like this, cuz on a far more grounded level, there is one very important thing to remember:
Yes, writers don't write because they want to, but because they must, but a starving, half-crazed artist can't buy pornography OR pizza, and I'll choose the latter over the former until the pressure in my head gets too much, and then I'll free the voices in my head with a trusty Black and Decker special.
posted by Unknown @ 5:02 AM
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