Excuses To Not Be Writing

You haven’t seen me around lately. I’ll try to take it as an observation instead of an accusation. I’ve been around. Trust me. I was probably hanging out by the Pepsi Machine. Yeah, that’s where I was. Behind the Pepsi Machine, trying to get inspired. You didn’t notice me? I was sitting in the back row, clapping my ass off for you. I’m kind of glad I wasn’t spotted because then I’d be interrogated about what I’ve been writing lately. No, I haven’t been around.

I just haven’t had anything come to mind. I’ve been busy working on other stuff. What’s the stuff? Well, it’s stuff. I’ve been working long hours. I’ve been going to a lot of mics. There’s been too much baseball on TV. You would think that with all of this stuff to do, I would have a lot to say. But when I put my fingers to the keyboard, none of those experiences can be translated into readable words and instead can be better described using subtle vocal utterances. You wouldn’t understand, it’s science. My mind has been a blank.

It’s been too hot to write comfortably. I have expended all of my resources trying to beat the heat. It’s getting worse every year. I can’t bear to sit and write phonetically to you when the sweat is creeping down my back. I’d end up only writing about how unbearable being alive is. The humidity causes my brain to buzz and be generally unfocused, with some sparks flying out of it like some cartoon shit. I understand that I’m not the only one experiencing this heat. All of those people are finding the energy to write. They’re all able to write in places with adequate air conditioning. But I don’t have the capacity to work in public environments. I can only create from home. And home is 500 degrees.

I’ve been watching far too much baseball. It’s all I want to do when I go home. Since Spring, my mind has been held captive. It gets a regular amount of food and water daily. Then it’s force-fed statistics and analysis. Remember that funny looking guy in the stands at the Brewers game on May 10, 2013? I think I saw him again. Nobody wants to read that crap. It’s all an inside joke. People that want to read about baseball are those who watch baseball, therefore have less of a need to read about it. It is just not writable.

My job is crushing my soul. It used to be that I could separate my days. Whatever happens inside of work never got carried outside and vice-versa. Now that I’m older with more responsibilities, the littlest thing will ruin the rest of my week. I have to rely on mouth-breathing mutants. Customers are growing more disappointed by the day. Everybody has questions for me. They’re all relying on me. I want to punch Eddie Vedder in the face. Please let me punch Eddie Vedder in the face. There’s no nuggets here.

I probably drink too frequently. What else can be done? I love having a drink at the end of the day. Once I have a drink, well, I can’t create anything at all. So I just go to bed and then wake up too late the next day. I tried to translate my drinking into writing, but the results got too messy. I realize that a lot of great writers did their best work while intoxicated. But whenever I type something after a few Wild Turkeys, it’s never up to snuff. It’s not even Cujo. All of those alcoholic writers trained themselves to be that way. I can’t do that to myself.

I can only think of nonsense. And that’s well and fun when I’m writing for the sake of enjoyment. But I want to take myself seriously some day. I can’t do that when all that comes to mind is the one time I pooped myself at a Super Foodtown. I already told that story, there’s no point in doing so again. And then I look back and realize that I’ve been writing nothing but bullshit my entire life. It’s time to put a stop to that. From now on, I need to take myself more seriously. I’m going to tackle real issues that matter to people. My words will shake you to the core. Umm…crap, it’s about poop.

I fell in love with a human girl person. In any scenario, this wouldn’t be a bad thing. And it’s actually been a goddamn dream. Life has been cupcakes and rainbows and all of that fuzzy nonsense. I also lost a piece of myself in the process. Most of my identity revolved around the fact that I was eternally doomed to be lonely. What am I supposed to write about if I don’t have heartache to crutch onto? Instead, she makes my heart sing and I want to do nothing except be around her. There’s no genuine material there. I’d basically have to force myself to sabotage the relationship in order to have something worthy to say. Like, I could poop on her?

Nobody is going to read it, anyway. We all know the feeling. When you work so hard on something that you’re actually somewhat proud of. You promote it into the ether with wild hopes and dreams. Maybe it’ll go viral. Maybe your ex will like it. Or that guy that picked on you in Middle School. You wait all day anticipating your traffic metrics. And then you find out that 2 people read it. Yet 4 people “liked” it on Facebook. Do we do it for the likes?

I haven’t experienced anything interesting enough. There aren’t any good movies out. My environment blends into itself. It never changes. I watched too much TV on vacation. The bar is nothing to write home about. My life has been too easy. There’s been no great struggle. Taking the train around the country led to me just staring out windows. Do you want to read about windows? I don’t think you want to.

There’s plenty of excuses to not write anything. Your head hurts, you have no money, you’re constipated, whatever. But we all must realize one important thing. You shouldn’t create because you have a greater purpose. You should do it because that’s what makes you feel like a real human. Because everything in life actually matters if you spin it properly. The most minuscule things make up the grand universe we live in and they all have merit. Even your lack of inspiration can mean something to you. Maybe we should all just get over ourselves and create something. That way, today could actually have some significance to us. So, what did you do today?

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