No one ever reads this blog but me, and guess I prefer it that way....
When I was in high school, my mind was a sadistic floodgate of creative, disgusting ideas that I transferred onto a word document (I'm not old enough to have ever enjoyed the written word; my hand's just not fast enough for my brain.)...there was one time in particular when I popped a couple Vicodin after a minor foot injury, sat in my giant studio apartment room above my parent's garage, sneaked a couple Utah strength Bud Lights and wrote for hours and hours reflecting on the crazy shit that had happened to me in the last few months. When I was done spewing words and analysis and humor and sorrow and rhetoric and anecdotes and lies and truths, I felt like a new person, like I had just psychoanalyzed the fuck out of everyone, everything and especially myself.
Well now I'm a grown up. I don't have a narcotic prescription (although I must admit it feels like my metacarpals are dislocating as we speak) but I do have plenty of beer. I have attempted numerous times to start writing again, as the written word, despite how cheesy it sounds, is a large part of my soul. Without it, I'm frustrated. I used to compare it to being constipated. But now I think it's more like a sexually frustrated 18 year old. It's not something I need to do everyday, although I probably would if I could. If I hold back long enough, it makes me irritable. Eventually I'll resort to making bad decisions if I can't find a way to release the tension....
So now my writing skills are dull and my sense of humor is suffering and my insight is all gone. Especially because my life is so incredibly different now than it was last year, or any year before. I have a lot of catching up to do. And it's going to take a certain amount of commitment that I may or may not have. But I'm about to try. SO I'm going to start by trying a 30 day writing exercise....
Here we go....
