I Hate Blogging

Never know what to write on this damn blog. You get into this thing because you wanna write books and have the world leave you the fuck alone. But you gotta have a blog and you gotta have Twitter and you gotta have a platform and you gotta spend more than half of your time working on your precious platform so you can have half a chance at making enough money to someday quit your job. Because of course you need a job to pay for food and a roof over your head and the heater and all the other modern conveniences you need because your mother didn't have the decency to have the doctor slice you out of her cunt and throw you in the trash as soon as she found out she was pregnant. So Mom and Dad had sex sometime in the nineties. And why do I have to be punished for it? Care to answer me that one, Mr. Jehovah? I didn't even get laid. Speaking of which. No time for that bullshit these days. When I'm not at work smiling at idiots I'm at home tapping my phone screen till the stories and blog posts and Tweets come out. Or feeling bad about myself for writing less than I should. I really ought to be writing sixteen hours a day and churning out a novel a week by now. Anything less is pure laziness and only goes to show you why the malevolent God who created this world takes especial glee in casting anxiety down on me. If I were a good little boy who worked hard and didn't jerk off constantly I wouldn't feel so bad all the time. (Don't take me seriously, I'm hamming it up for the audience. I'm very happy. Really.) Anyway, no time for women. And obviously, when I say that it's a cope covering over my massive insecurities about women. Not to mention my worries about how old and bitter I'll be when and if I ever get this writing thing to work for me. Imagine this scenario: I'll finally have my big break when I'm sixty years old, and I'll be grizzled and overweight and have terrible skin from all the years of trying to quit smoking. And I finally have that eighteen year old cheerleader girlfriend I always wanted and everybody says I'm a pedophile because what man wouldn't want a woman of his own age and level of experience. But I can't get it up anymore, haven't for years on account of all the nicotine in my dick, so I have to hire a six foot five football player type to verbally abuse me while I sit crying in the corner and taking peeks at her gobbling his cock. And I wish all those years ago I could've been the six foot five running back who scored the winning touchdown at the state championship instead of a cringing little worm who thought he was significant and oh so deep for reading old books while other people were getting out and actually living their lives. I remember hearing about school shooters as a kid and having sympathy for the shooters but not giving a fuck about the victims. We've all had those fantasies, brother. Especially with those cheerleaders you always wanted but were too chickenshit to so much as look at, let alone talk to. See! See! All his hostility to women comes from being terrified of them and feeling powerless before them. And that all comes from his deep inner conviction that he's basically disgusting and unlovable. How long did it take you to figure that one out, Agatha Christie? You're so insightful. … please don't take things like that personally. Sarcasm is another vice I have a hard time denying myself. I don't want to hurt or insult you personally, I just want to get revenge against God for not only having the gall to create the universe, but for dragging me into it. Without consent, btw. Birth is rape. (There, I said it! XD) Corollary: all mothers are rapists. I kid, I kid. Most people start to enjoy life after it gets going… (This is all written in character, by the way. Geofrey is a perfectly happy and not at all troubled man. He always has a smile and a kind word for everyone in "real life.") I swear, I'm like a David Lynch character. To meet me in real life you'd have no idea all this is going on beneath the surface. Granted, I work as a cashier and it's a cashier's job to play the smiling happy idiot, but I think it suits me to some extent because that's my natural state. (Smiling and making nice, that is, not being an idiot. Although to be honest, it's both.) It's not women who terrify me, it's just people. The males are just as intolerable as the females, just for different reasons. People. Just smile and fake nice till they go away. And if they don't go away, get into a relationship and resent them for months or years until you end it all without warning. I'm not as conflict avoidant as I used to be. But most of the time it's easier to make nice than it is to force yourself to stand up for yourself. Which would be fine, except you and I both know that means adding a tiny little crumb to your steadily-growing mountain of resentment. Which might not topple today, or tomorrow, but someday… And let's be honest. I wouldn't write things like this or make the kinds of cruel jokes I make if I didn't have a lot of poorly-channeled aggression. (A writer is really nothing more than a cowardly, passive-aggressive control freak.) I feel ashamed of myself when I write things like this. I ought to be making a story or writing a poem to make people feel inspired. Something other-directed. It's narcissistic and masturbatory to write about myself. And even if it weren't in general, it would be in my case because I'm not worth writing about and I'm not interesting. And even if I were I still wouldn't write this way about myself because it exposes my weaknesses and once people know your weaknesses they'll mercilessly attack them. Maybe I should have some message or great cause to espouse. You know the old chestnut: "A wise man speaks because he has something to say, while a fool speaks because he has to say something." At this point I'm firmly a member of the latter group. All I have to offer is a lot of venom and unjustified hostility. It's not always like that, though. Sometimes I'll manage to lift myself out of my general discontent long enough to make an effort to drop the defensive hostility and genuinely relate to others. Not always easy to do, that. Sometimes I'll try praying. Say something like, "Fuck you, God. I don't want any of this, I don't want to be here, and I never asked to be born. Fuck you for making me exist. And it's not like you're real, anyway–you're just a convenient shorthand for the fact that something happens to exist, or a part of my psyche I'm trying to unlock, or the collective stupidity of Western civilization. You're not real, but fuck you anyway. Why did you make me so despicable? I should be grateful, I should be stronger, I should be better. Fuck you, God. Fuck you and I wish you were real and I wish I could love you." And the funny thing is that I'll feel better after that. More connected, more open, less resentful. Maybe if there is a God he appreciates the honesty. I'd like to be grateful. Grateful even in the struggle, loving even in the suffering, and willing to do good to others even though most of them are ungrateful and generally a burden to be around. But mostly I despise my own narrowness, and the more I despise it the more narrow I become. Anyway. I'd like to have some grand, important, and meaningful thing to say. Something other than venom and groping after God. But mostly all I can do is put words on the pain. At least it's nothing worse than that, I guess. The same thing that drives me to write unpleasant things like this could drive me to drink, or harm others, or (more suited to my temperament) harm myself. At least here I don't hurt anybody, or if I do it's only by saying rude things I immediately regret. At least I'm writing–or at least that's what I tell myself. Most days writing feels like trying to divert a river of vomit with a plastic spoon. Tiny, meaningless efforts that are disgusting in themselves and probably don't make a damned bit of difference. But at least it's not backsliding, and maybe that's something. And maybe there's some kind of progress being made, even if I'm too close to it to see it happening. And maybe someday I really will have something to say, and maybe I'll be able to say it because of the time I took here, now. I wish I had something to say to inspire you. Give you hope. Give you strength. Make you feel loved. It's a struggle to find that in myself, but maybe it's a struggle worth making, and maybe it's a struggle where it's possible to win a kind of victory. "And the Light shone in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it." Keep up the struggle, friends. There's light in you.