Fuck It (Part V)

Hello, friends. Guess I got to feeling guilty again. You know how it is when you miss a couple of commitments and the next thing you know you’re wrapped in blankets and shaking uncontrollably in a dusty corner.

Well I’m sitting in a chair now, looking in the mirror, and I figured I’d say hello.

I was sick for a week. I was coughing and coughing and coughing. I had to pay for going so hard a couple weeks ago. I worked four 12 hour days and went out three times. I couldn’t hardly sleep the whole time, too. Yeah but the sickness didn’t stop me from working and going out some more and stuff like that. On Saturday I overdosed on Tylenol Severe Cough and Cold and felt like, well I don’t remember, really, just felt bad. I got some cheap cough syrup from Duane Reade. I thought it would be as good as the regular stuff, whatever, had the same ingredients. It tasted like shit and didn’t do much of anything otherwise.

I had an iced coffee for the first time in a while and then my stomach hurt the rest of the eight hours I was at work. It was miserable. Jesus Christ. I used to drink that shit every day in the summer and I always kind of felt like that, honestly. Jesus.

Woo! Some low level problems out here to be sure but you know these past few weeks I’ve tried to entertain very few thoughts so I am identifying with my body more. Just trying to convince myself that I am not my thoughts or feelings or experiences. But not really trying to convince myself of that because that would just be my thoughts convincing my thoughts of something. So I’m just not thinking about that shit and just existing in a manner of speaking.

I recently learned that Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises was based so closely on real events that the people who were there when it happened said that they couldn’t believe he was passing it off as fiction. I think I’ll write something like that about the restaurant. Just write down a bunch of real interesting shit and make it look like a novel.

Sometimes I have been thinking of some more shit Malcolm Gladwell likes to talk about. He always makes me feel better about my life. He said that there are two kinds of artists, some are like Picasso and some are like Cezanne. Cezanne would paint the same thing over and over again and wouldn’t produce anything of value until later in life, while Picasso painted shit quickly. Everyone thinks you have to be like Picasso I guess, but maybe I’ll just keep doing shit all circular like and eventually I’ll make something pretty, too. Ha or just be lazy till the day that I die. Who cares! Fuck it.

Yeah last night my wife was telling me some plans she was thinking about which involved modifying some plans we had already made, some life goals and shit and I was like is that what you want to do and she said what do you want to do? And I said that sounded good, after staring at her for an uncomfortably long time. What do I want to do? Fuck it, I’m doing it.

Stop Writing While You Still Know What Will Happen Next

Good afternoon denizens of Earth! Good afternoon you crazy bastards!

Proverbs says that he who rises early in the morning and blesses his friend loudly will count it a curse upon himself, so I have risen early in the afternoon and blessed you fuckers loudly in order to avoid that fate.

Yes, here we are, the 50th day of the year and what the fuck is happening to it all?

I spent the morning calling my grandfather, who is really happy for me, but would be happier if I moved to California and worked at his friend’s company, and if I also was working on building an Amway business and also spending the rest of my free time at church, so it’s like he’s in love with me but also wants me to do my life completely differently, so talking on the phone with him is always enough to set me on edge. But I’m not complaining! Lord, no, not me! Some people’s grandfathers died out of cancer or got shot by Pancho Villa or Black Jack Pershing. Of course, the old “could be worse” argument hasn’t done much for me.

Then I said to myself, “Mother of fuck, Gordon K. Flanders, you tawdry universe of molecules, why don’t you just write a thousand words and be done with it!” So then I did write a thousand words, even though I didn’t want to, and it took me like an hour, and I was ready to keep writing but I stopped myself and said, “This is what’s wrong with you! Stop, you bastard, and just fucking be done with it!” So that’s what I did and then I proceeded to catch up a little bit on that old man’s book work I’ve been avoiding.

Maybe that’s the secret, I’ll just write a thousand words a day and no fucking more than that, by God!

But there are more pressing issues, folks, indeed, the time has come! Yes, well! And I will tell you all about those pressing issues! Some other time! Exclamation point!

Have a good fucking afternoon, metaphorically speaking.