Quantity Is More Important Than Quality

Reality, in the metaphorical sense, in the sense that reality is everything undesirable about your otherwise good life, is back today like an old dying Aunt with no friends who just wants a few quarters for the slots. The last wave of inspiration has subsided, tonight I go back to work, the smell of coffee is negated by the smell of a full trashcan, the inbox is full of emails with bold underlined capitalized bullshit, and the guy who cut my hair last night somehow fucked it up. From now on I’m just getting that shit shaved. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking asking for some kind of ridiculous shit like short on the sides and messy on top. Yeah it’s a fucking mess now. Good fucking job.

I don’t think there’s really anything worth talking about now, especially since I can’t seem to even word the boring shit to be funny any more, so I might as well keep typing. At least I can get in a thousand words before getting bogged down in the mire. I’ll just resort to typing long cliches. I’m listening to an album of classical music called Mood Booster. I thought it would be a good idea. I started listening to The National at first and then I realized I was just going to type the lyrics over and over again if I didn’t stop.

Woo fuck, this is going to be tough shit. I do not feel in the least like writing. Ok, well, shit we’re a quarter of the way there now. Sometimes you just got to push on through, like Bob Marley said.

I been reading a lot about American History so I could write a book about a guy in America sometime. Maybe I was wrong to do that. I don’t think so, I’m just feeling like I was wrong about everything. It’s funny how much I don’t know about American history. I don’t know much of anything about American history, and it’s not that much history to even learn.

I don’t mind working, I guess, I mean I hate it, but it pays and that’s cool. I think I’ve worked everyone’s expectations down that I’m coming home for Thanksgiving or for any reason really. I love my family and I have one of the most loving families…or at least verbally loving families, I think maybe their actions say otherwise. My family is all about drama and shit and talking behind each other’s backs and putting on a good face and also full of expectations. No one expects you to do well in a career, they just want you to do well in your spiritual life, AKA go to church, pray, and get raptured in the next few days. And then they also want you to do Amway. Then you’d be good.

Shit, I just wish we could all sit around and chill when we see each other. But you can’t relax because they need you to be someone you’re not. Ah but that’s fine, because most people do. Nobody wants to talk about death all the time. Unless there’s a heaven afterwards, in which case my family would be happy to talk about it. But I guess the fact that they are my family makes me expect them to love me unconditionally. So I guess we all have our expectations.

I just want to move to Siberia and they can all stay here. It sucks because I want to see them but at the same time I never want to see them again. My grandmother is close to the end of her life and she never expected anybody to do anything but their “lessons”, which is what she called homework. She doesn’t think you’re a bad person as long as you’re not a bad person, whereas most of my family thinks you’re a bad person if you’re not Jesus Christ, and not just the real Jesus Christ but the rich one who hates gays and abortions.

Anyway, only three hundred words to go now. Ah, fuck, this sucks shit I feel like I’m cleaning a stubborn bathroom. How can I add something to your life today? I don’t know. What to I want to make you feel? Who are you? What emotion do I want to communicate? Boredom… I heard this song by The Doors on Other Voices. The guy was like, “I’m nervous I’m bored I’m stoned I’m ugly something something.” That was a good song. I bet he didn’t know what the hell to write about at that point.

Damn if I could just cut down some god damn trees around here. Even cleaning something doesn’t feel as productive as the idea of cutting down trees does. Like I could clean the apartment more and that does make me feel better about my life but that shit is just temporary. You clean something and then the next day you wake up and that shit is not clean any more, and then you start to believe that every day is a new day and you are just as wretched as you were the one before. You never make any progress. Like Chuck Klosterman said, every night things come together and I understand the world, and then morning comes and I don’t understand shit, and that’s why I hate mornings.

I like mornings, pretty much, sometimes, if I’m feeling good…alright so I liked one morning one time it was pretty good. Or the mornings of my childhood or the ones when I was in France the first time, but those are in my memory and probably didn’t happen at all like I remember and I probably hated them at the time. I guess the only thing to do is to trick yourself into thinking you were having a good time yesterday.

Well, there you go. Sorry about that, I guess, unless you liked it. I enjoyed it minimally. But I will try to remember that it was fun.

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