So, you may have noticed that I haven't been writing much. This has been due to the normal combination of laziness (still haven't watched those five episodes of How I Met Your Mother), drinking too much, and writer's block. However, there has been some other things. Some things on my chest.
I. Memories that haunt me
When I was three or some other still-shitting-myself-and-drooling-a-lot age, I mastered the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. My parents have a video somewhere of me cuddling with Ricky, a stuffed raccoon, and giving it as good of a rendition as a poopy child could.
When I was a kid I would write bullshit stories about evil robot phones attacking a city with its number pad, Bad Guys getting shot by Good Guys (my parents let me watch a lot of movies a little kid shouldn't have...they are pretty awesome), and other really cool little things.
My next door neighbor and best-friend growing up would help me draw five page comics (I could never draw...seriously, its the only thing harder than math) to coincide with these stories.
I remember sitting on the couch in my living room with my dad, watching what I would later figure out was something called the Gulf War unravel on something I would later figure out was called The News (it never got anymore exciting with age). To me, it was just cool explosions and guns. So naturally, I asked, 'Dad? Who are the Good Guys and who are the Bad Guys?' That was the first time someone actively set out to explain that it, sadly, isn't always that simple. My dad tried (putting it the best little kid terminology he could) to explain that it was more about who's ideas you believed in and often times, who was shooting at you.
I remember that I had the single most ridiculous collection of G.I. Joe figures ever. My dad would sit patiently and play 'Mortal Kombat' with me on our living room floor (I ALWAYS won).
I remember when I was little and money wasn't something that existed unless mom and dad gave it to me, my mom just wanted me to write something, anything for her for Christmas. That was all she wanted. Year after year, she just wanted me to share my creative side with her. Every year I had an excuse, or I was just a little shit and copped out by making some piece of shit 'craft' (remember, I am not an artistic person) and saying that I couldn't think of anything to write. This still breaks my heart.
I am thinking about all the Christmas presents, letters, thank-you notes, phone calls, mix CDs, and all that other stuff I owe other people. Sometimes, I realize I am terribly selfish and shitty. This makes me really sad.
II. Things I have wanted to do.
So, I guess I have always had this great imagination. I guess I have always wanted to do something with it. So that was what I set my mind on. I was going to fucking write something.
And a while back, I sort of did. I had the beginnings of something that many people found entertaining (or at least they were good liars) and I was really proud of it.
But then, as a couple years and a bunch of reading stacked on, I realized it was garbage. I was garbage. I didn't have the vocabulary I imagined I did. Nor the patience for school so I could further my skills. Nor did I have the wit for dialogue. And on top of it, I was allergic to character development.
I was never going to be a writer.
A year later I figured out that I was going to move back to an old stomping ground of mine and do cool stuff.
And then I moved to an old stomping ground of mine and I did some cool stuff. I met a few people, went to some cool shows, and fell in love with the crowds (and drinks) at a couple of the bars.
But then money became tight so I requested full time at my job. Full time night shift, from midnight to eight. I don't know any other third shifter and I guess its kinda weird to get really drunk at ten in the morning if you aren't a night shifter, so I never saw anyone anymore. The weekends were all I had and even then, that was over far too quick.
So now I don't do cool stuff.
So then I decided to relearn the bass. I could spend my time learning cool songs and maybe be in a band, hey I knew one that was looking!
So I borrowed a bass and threw myself into it. I was amazed! I could still do it! I picked up on a few old songs I used to know after just a week. Here was something I could do.
But then I learned those few old songs and realized I had to learn something new. I quickly discovered that it was just old sparks of muscle memory. Gone was my agile ways. My fingers, no longer nimble. I couldn't learn new stuff.
I could never be a bassist.
So, I guess I am just searching for the next lie to tell myself. The next thing to tell me that I just might rise, even if so slightly, above this middle class prison. Something to be proud of. And in that search, I just haven't had the heart to write in this blog.
I will never be a writer.
