Late night writing

‘Cause I ain’t know what else to do. My life in a not-so-nutshell: stay up ridiculously late, wake up never, lay around in bed, then stay up ridiculously late again. Throughout all of this I am busy doing nothing. Life’s hard, no? And here I am thinking I’m a writer or something. Oh no wait, I’m a graduate student enlightening myself through diligent writing and voracious reading. Yeah, that’s totally the truth. But if appearances alone determine the truth then nobody will be the wiser, excepting my self-esteem.

You see, I’m currently living through what is supposed to be the creative, personal, and professional renaissance of my life. I’m in New York City, that glimmering jewel of the global arts community, where we all come to seek inspiration and camaraderie and sex. It’s all supposed to be here, sitting on every curb and waiting for you to fall into its arms. What more could I ask for?! No work involved! Just get my ass up and move around a little, maybe do a twerk for some undeserved attention, smoke a cigarette or two as well, and then drink a respectable amount. And you know what? It’s kind of happening that way. Without even trying I’ve found myself developing professional and creative connections. Without even thinking I’m now suddenly surrounded by pretty smart people, all of them equally as eager to develop their writing. I’ve even been able to make inroads into the publishing world just by being a noisy little shit. People know who I am and seem to be alright with me. Fuck yeah!

But the kicker is that I’m still finding a way to squander all of this newfound good fortune. Somehow I find ways to lie around in bed until 4PM and, even after getting out, do nothing but twiddle my thumbs. Hell, I’m not even twiddling my diddle. You know a man’s hit some obscure level of inertia when he isn’t even playing with his junk. Can I argue that it takes an incredible amount of conviction to lie in bed until 4PM? And to not play with your junk? I like thinking of myself in grandiose terms. As you can see it’s not like I’m sad or anything. I’m actually quite happy to be here, even if things aren’t perfect. Then again perfection is a never ending journey that can surely only breed disillusionment. Or is that a good thing? I’ve found that I’m most productive when I’m bored. As they say, boredom is the mother of invention. Or wait was it something else? Who fucking cares.

What I want above all else is to create something of intellectual worth. I want to be the next Camus, or Kafka, or maybe even Foster Wallace. None of whom I’ve actually read. Maybe a bit of Camus. Starting this program I was initially quite intimidated by how well-read all of my peers were. It was like sitting with my friends back home as they talked sports.

“Jordan is the best.”
“No Kobe is.”
“Shut the fuck up Tyson epitomizes the true athlete.”
“What about Roy Jones? He had class, style.”
“Yeah but he didn’t capture the spirit of his time like Maradona did.”
“Well now we have Messi, and he isn’t even jacked on coke!”

So I’ve spent the last six weeks or so listening to my writing buddies and biddies blabber on about the genius of so and so writer, and how their writing is like this famous person’s, or how they aspire to be like this other famous person. Quite a few of these blabbering writers are actually quite good, too. I read their work and think to myself, “Wow, I’m a simpleton.” Nobody wants to think this of themselves, you know? It was quite frightening at first. Here I was thinking that my writing would revolutionize the world and instead I’m realizing that I’m not all that bright. My dad told me so.

But like the changing seasons, so our lives do go. A continual cycle of birth and life and change and death, interspersed with a healthy amount of masturbation if you can’t find someone to get you off. But unlike that horrible metaphor my life is slowly mutating into what I want it to be. First I dispense with the idea that I’m a genius. In spring did he first spray pesticides. Then I begin to wander around and act like the irreverent bastard I’ve always wanted to be. In summer did he prance about the sunny fields and kick bunnies. As I discover the gremlin within I more readily embrace its colors. In the fall did he wipe his ass with the falling auburn, and orange, and yellow leaves, claiming it all as his own. It all comes full circle when I become inured to the machinations of this crazy world. In the winter did he point and laugh at the freezing bum.

God I’m a fucking strange.

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