Tag Archives: Create

Writing is poop. (“People order our patties?”) No.

Writing is like eating: you ingest stuff, and then you shit stuff back out, and the shit is never as good as the consumptions that lead to the shit in the first place.

“Hey, look at this apple! Looks delicious!” (greedily eats it; shit comes out) “Hey, what happened to that apple? Where did all of the things that made that apple great go? Why did I turn something great into something terrible? FUCK.”

But the hunger never ceases, and you’d die if that were the case.

Such is the life of the creative.

Metaphor. (Yes, I realize that what I used is, like, a simile).



“The Consumption”

The poor boy was afflicted at birth
Bitten by the creative bug
Bugging others
With his hypersensitive sense of humor

The poor boy,
Sick in the head,
Never sought treatment
He went mad instead

Drove others mad as well
Had little friends
That by night, danced in his head,
And by day, went to bed

Soon, this poor boy
Really got loopy
Decided that he
Wasn’t insane

By day, and by night
He drove himself mad
With letters on a screen
And dreams that he had

Day in, and day out
His failures mounted
Time fading fast,
No dollars to be counted

Still, he dreamed on
Of making himself laugh
Writing good stories
And the occasional poem

Mike Judge taunted him
And Pewdiepie, too
Many people did
And so few knew

The poor boy was hardheaded
Ignored all diagnoses
He wasn’t sick!
He was destined for show biz!

In his heart, he knew
That they’d all care one day
That he was born to express,
Longed for the stage

He danced and he sang
To all that would listen
With every watching eye,
His own would glisten

He waged battles in his head
Each side had a general
There was only one war,
But multiple agendas…

The poor boy ran around
In his own head each day
For no recognition,
And certainly no pay

What was his dream?
Was it to dance?
Was it to be a homebody
With no pants?

He talked and he talked
He danced and he sang
No one else around,
Just doing his thing

He was Elvis in the shower,
Michael Jackson while mowing the lawn
Jordan while exercising
While in spirit, Rick Vaughn

He longed for the stars
Compelling dark fiction
Looking for laughs
From all that would listen

The stress in his head,
The fears and the doubts,
Kept him silent,
Kept his words from coming out

He had to battle himself,
And prove to the world,
That his words had meaning
And resonance

The desire to create
Always consumed him,
And he wanted to be talented
To all that knew him

Disturbed – Down With The Sickness Parody (DISCRETION ADVISED).


“The Hypodermic Needle”

A walk, to clear the mind
And the stomach

Flooded with emotions

Of the past,
Both dark, and bright

A reminder, of the good,
And the dark

Upon reflecting the good,
A hypodermic needle, on the ground

A somber reminder
Of the times

Of the memories,
And the sympathy

And the guilt

But still, trudging on
Full gullet, full heart

A mind full of memories,
And a much welcomed perspective

Old, and new
Combined into new

The darkness, now light
The light, still there

Trash, once treasures
Imagination, now reality

A thankfulness, and lamentation
Of days gone by…

But an imagination renewed;
A productive imagination

Bigger than ever

Getting Sucked Into the World of Writing

It’s time for me to take writing more seriously. I hate writing, because of the headache it gives me. How to begin a piece, elaborate on it, make it coherent, make the language better, more efficient, easier to read, and end it on a witty, snazzy note. The mere sight of a word processor makes me want to close it out. But yet, I still write. In some ways, I feel like my nature opposes writing. And truly, it does. I think a large part of this is my desire to be carefree, and relax (I can probably thank my father’s genes for that desire (it ain’t a bad desire to have, I might add)).

I can’t do that if I’m going to write.

I think this is why I have been avoiding this dreaded day for so long. I have started to become tired of my writing for various reasons, and I don’t think I’ve known how to fix the problems that I have with it. Perhaps (cringe), it is that I need to study literature more. Read more. I can hear my best friend when I hear my own internal voice. I really do need to read more to know what the fuck I’m doing when I decide to write. As much as I want to vomit at the thought of becoming an “avid reader” (because patience is not one of my strong suits, nor is feeling like I’m not productive (I don’t feel productive when I read fiction, although, for example, I am being productive when I read if reading helps me become a better writer)), reading is a great way to become a better writer. If I read people who are better writers than me (as if), I will become a better writer (impossible: I’m already the best). I know that, as a writer, there comes a point when I become tired of my writing. Or, rather, that there comes a point in time when I need to do something about the fact that I’m tired of my writing, as I’ve been sick of my writing for quite some time.

The problem is that there were (and probably still are) things I needed to say before I could get to the current point that I am now. Even though this sounds crazy to me, I feel like all of my writing is related in some way. Indeed, it may be as simple as this fact that I have overlooked until now: that it all comes from me.

But I have not been ready to commit to writing. Although it makes me cringe to write this, perhaps it was because I had nothing to say. There’s clearly a combination of factors that have prevented me from “getting sucked into the world of writing.” I feel like I have written about these a million times before. Part of the problem is that I’ve been focused too much on marketing instead of writing; caring more about the views than the pieces themselves. Now, that isn’t entirely true, because I don’t write simply for the numbers. But the numbers discourage me from writing.

I’m a typical victim of words just not coming out right from my head. Communication is a huge problem for me. I don’t care to practice it very often, for I’m content with being by myself (or I “talk to myself” in the form of creating things for my own enjoyment). From a creative standpoint, I only talk “to” other people as a seller. “These are the jokes I have”, “The insights I believe I have”, etc. I don’t particularly care for “back-and-forth”, getting to know readers and other writers, etc. And I personally think that because I don’t enjoy communicating, I’m not as good at it as I desire to be. Writing is the best way for me to practice getting better at communication. Why would I desire to communicate if I hate it, you may ask? I may have written this before, but writing is a desire that overwhelms me at times. Even the introvert has things to say after he stews on things a bit longer than most. But I don’t write as often as I feel like I want to deep down. And I believe that it is a fear of commitment to “getting sucked into the world of writing” (that was a joke. You see, the quotation marks exist because that’s the title of this piece- ok you got it).

Writing fiction makes me want to vomit. The initial process is the fun part: the “first draft” (I’m not quite sure how to label my writing, so I’ll go along with common vernacular that I’ve heard (or read) authors use). I’m very eager to share my works, even if my works aren’t very good (lol). Probably because I’m eager to get that “million dollar deal” that isn’t on the table. Probably a good deal to do with it. But I need that motivation to keep me going.

I suppose that I’m merely developing as a writer (something that I truly didn’t think was possible, oh, 4 ½ years ago now). My best friend, a fellow writer, always talked (and still does) about improving as a writer. When I heard that, I thought “How can I improve? I know I’m not the best, but I’m good enough.” (Good enough for what? My own standards, I suppose). But after 4 ½ years, the state of my writing (particularly fiction), as I said, makes me want to vomit. It’s a tangled web to unweave; a commitment that I haven’t been sure that I want to make or not. It’s not that I don’t love to write. I really, really do. But there’s aspects of writing that I don’t like. I like the initial idea that I come up with for a particular piece. And then, I write that idea down. And that’s typically where it ends. Very little editing (if any, because I haven’t wanted to “get sucked in the world of writing”). No revisions. Just “Hey, I like this thought. Write it down.” And done.

I’m not satisfied with that anymore. Currently, I think the biggest reason for this dissatisfaction is my boredom. I’ve got things to do, but I’m becoming bored of doing them. And I always start writing again when I’m at my most bored. When I enjoy doing something, I don’t want to do it so much that I lose my love for it. That is what I have always feared about writing: that if I do it more often, I’m not going to enjoy it as much when I do it. Is there too much of a good thing, in this case? I haven’t dared test it, just in case. For what would I replace this with? What could I do that would replace writing? It’s not that I don’t enjoy doing other things; but writing is very important to me. It has its own purpose. I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand why I write. And that bugs me. I enjoy being introspective. But am I really willing to spend the time and effort to figure out why I enjoy writing? ‘Tis a very daunting task. Perhaps it is just better to enjoy it and not question it. It remains to be seen for me. (Why Do I Write How I Write?)

I love non-fiction, and the possibilities for fiction are marvelous. But it’s the fiction that bugs me, because fiction is a lot harder to write for me. Perhaps it is because literally anything can happen. And the thought of selecting things, and organizing things into a good story irks me. I have countless notes in a word document that say “Write a story about __________ where ___________”. And then, I’ll open up the blank word document to start it, and that’s when it hits me. “Holy shit. This is a big commitment. This is a sanity commitment. A creative, insanity commitment. A commitment to language; developing it, organizing it, thinking about it (and thinking about it…and thinking about it……and thinking about it………………..). It’s terrifying to me, because I know that I will, much like my best friend (much love), become insane. I can see the insanity in my best friend. I worry for the poor boy. A man lost in countless fantastical worlds, that cause his hair to prematurely turn gray because of the stress from not getting everything read and written. I’ve desperately tried to avoid that fate for myself, but I’m afraid that the fates are drawing me ever closer to that dark hole of “literature”, and I beg for God to have mercy on my soul. But, then again, perhaps I’ll feel most alive right before my literary-induced spiritual death.

I truly do have to thank my best friend. His love for language, I know, will help me with my own writing problems. Clearly, he’s already influenced me, much like countless authors have influenced him. I’m beginning to understand his words more now: literature truly is a lifetime commitment. And I’m always terrified of committing to something for fear of missing out on something else. I think a big part of that is how I was raised. My mother always told me that I could do whatever I set my mind to, and my father encouraged me to “use my brain and not my brawn.” So my mind wandered, and I envisioned all the possible careers I could take. Most of them didn’t interest me (regardless of how unrealistic the prospects actually were). But I’ve tried to keep my mind open to the possibilities, which has, up to this point, resulted in me not committing to any one particular thing.

And the world of writing does terrify me. The patience required to read, the things that you are sacrificing while you read due to time constraints. It terrifies me to think of committing myself to writing more because of whatever else I may be missing out on. Now that I think of it, what is it that I’m really missing out on? Sleep? Laziness? Truly, those may be the biggest things; coming up with anything else is probably just an excuse. But writing terrifies me. You’ve got people critiquing your works, asking for clarification (and you better be able to provide it), and, in my opinion, the two worst things that can happen: a reader getting bored of your writing, or a reader never knowing of your works at all.

Maybe another reason that I haven’t “gotten sucked into the world of writing” up to this point in my life is that my brain just doesn’t think good. I’ve written a little bit about reading here (this has a lot to do with it). But maybe I don’t have a brain well-equipped for reading. It’s not that I’ve always hated reading. But I think for me, the problem now is that I know that my future hangs in the balance at this very moment, and I need to do everything within my power to be successful; and reading feels like an unproductive waste of time, if only because I’m not creating anything when I read (even if reading would help out future creations). And, once again, I’m lazy, so there’s that.

My brain craves excitement. I’m constantly looking for new things. And I get tired of reading the same thing for an extended period of time (including a piece that I’m working on while I edit, like this one, currently). I guess I’m naturally a different type of reader than “avid” readers or “real” readers. It seems as if many “readers” stick with one thing at a time until they finish it or until they can’t take it anymore due to it being “bad”. My threshold is much lower. Once again, it is because I am afraid of getting lost in fantastical worlds. I’m afraid of the commitment. Because I know that my life will forever change, and change scares me (lol). I am afraid of transforming into a “reader”. The life of a reader is a different world. I am afraid of the improvement I’m sure it would offer me. Why? Well, I’m sure that (depending on what I read), reading will make me smarter, and will make me “sound smarter”. And, ironically, I have found that the smarter you sound, the harder it is for people to understand you. Now, clearly, I realize this is unfair on my part (or, at least, I hope so). My life experience is very limited, and I’m basing this mainly on my childhood, where I was schooled with kids of all sorts of demeanor, intelligence, etc. My confidence was affected by my peers in school (and, at times, my family). Once again, I’ve always dumbed myself down, and, therefore, have not had much practice in “sounding smart”. Acting like an idiot has made people more friendly towards me, and that explains why I love stupid humor, and acting like an idiot so much. I’ve been working my whole life to come out of my expressionless shell. I’m happy with the progress I’ve made, but I can’t accurately describe a measurement which would tell you how much further I have to go. Language truly is a full-time commitment. Scary.

Perhaps this is “bad” of me, but I don’t really care what you, the reader, think of my writing. Obviously, I care from a monetary standpoint. And, of course, I respect it when someone compliments my work. I’ll even read the criticisms, and determine whether or not I think they are valid (I think it’s about 50/50). It has been my experience that many people do not know what they are talking about: people that I have taken advice from in the past. I know this is “normal”. I know that “everyone goes through this”. But I don’t understand why you (I’m being presumptuous now, but with good reason (past experience)) feel compelled to tell me this fact simply because I’m stating that I’m one of the many people that are experiencing this. Why trivialize the experience of one by saying that many or all go through it? I think it’s a symptom of trying to be helpful, but not being very smart at being able to actually do it (I think that’s kind of a common, tragic theme that I’m learning (but slowly accepting) about humanity). Let’s just put it this way: it has been my past experience (many, many times) that when I spoke, the listener did not understand what I was saying. Perhaps they hadn’t considered it, and couldn’t relate. Of course, I could have elaborated on what I was saying. But when I did, I was just called a “smarty pants”, and then, they basically stopped listening. So honestly, that explains a lot of this. I stopped speaking because people weren’t willing to listen.

That’s pretty fucking depressing…

Welcome to my dark world. Lol

All I wanted was for someone to understand what I was saying without having to elaborate on it. In other words, someone to relate to. Sadly, those people were few and far between. I felt like they were more of a student than someone who could empathize with me. And that bugged me for many, many years. A large reason why I lost my voice.

From my childhood to my late teens, I felt crazy and self-conscious. I repressed my expressive desire, including what it was that I wanted to express. People either weren’t interested or didn’t understand what it was that I was trying to express (once again, it could’ve been my fault, but I was looking for a friend, not a student, as I said). Also, a lot of it was other kids just not liking my personality (still true to this day. Kids still hate me). I grew a desire to express myself comedically because when I was the clown, other kids laughed at me. They gave me attention. I acted like an idiot to amuse other people for social acceptance.

…That’s kind of fucked up and counter-intuitive, isn’t it?

However, the comedy grew not only as a way to try to fit in, but I truly believe it would’ve came out regardless of whether I was accepted or rejected by my youthful peers. Sarcasm; exhibitionist idiocy; humorous, creative associations between multiple things: I think all of these “funny” things (and other “funny” things) would’ve came out of me regardless.

Also, strangely enough, there is a sympathetic guilt on my part. My heart has always went out to those that I have felt were less fortunate than me. Currently, I think of those with language skills less developed than my own. Now, I’m not saying I’m a literary genius. But despite how meager my word skills may be, I pity those who are even less effective than I am at communicating. Like I said, I’ve always felt sympathetic for those that I feel are less fortunate than I, and I feel very fortunate to be able to communicate like I can. There’s tons of room for improvement, but I think I have a little “knack” for writing, and I pity those that don’t share that same knack. This pity has often made me feel guilty, which has contributed to my “not writing very good” situation. Dumbing myself down not only to be more sociable, but to be more “humble”. Independent gifts from God have always bugged me: probably due towards religious conditioning to “always be thankful”, directly contrasted (although immediately followed) by a message of fiery fear.

People don’t like it when you talk good. My desire to be readable contrasts with my intrinsic desire to be exact, thorough, and pertinent (I suppose that I am implying that you, the reader, are dumber than I. At least I offer a formal apology right now). I suppose time and practice will determine the balance between “readable” and “exactness” at any given time (perhaps an acceptance of a “readable = exactness” equation), but I’m really hoping I develop the confidence to be smarter in my writing. Once again, language truly is a full-time commitment. Still scary.

You, the readers, are a hindrance to me. I know that’s a bit harsh. But you, as people, by definition, contrast with my introverted nature (lol). My desire to be left alone, even though I want to write, and even though I want readers. This is probably a struggle that all creative introverts face. I know that when I write, you are free to comment, and tell me what you think. It’s not that I don’t respect criticism; it’s that I wish to be left alone. It’s not that I, as an introvert, do not desire communication. It’s that I just desire less communication than “normal”. Even the introvert has a voice. I’d like to think that I think a little bit before I speak, but I can recollect too many instances where this isn’t the case to shatter my own view of my humility.

The fact that I can’t figure out why I want to write hinders me from writing. Because I want to write about why I want to write. My brain can’t let things go, and I have to build upon previous thoughts to move on to something else. I truly believe that things that I write are connected, but I need the beginning blocks to get there. And that’s just another step towards getting sucked into the world of writing…

(Thank God I found my best friend when I did. He may have single-handedly saved my writing. If not for his persistence in the face of his own self-perceived limitations, I may not be writing this today, and may not have written some of the things in the future that I will write in the future).

All of these things keep me from writing. And, truly, I’m probably not ready to “jump right in” at the moment. As I said, I think I have a way of starting from the beginning from a personal analysis perspective, write about that, and then move on to the next phase of my own personal development. Because when I think of it, I truly don’t think that anything I’ve written up to this point is a waste of time. They all have a purpose, even if they are kind of shit. But boredom and restlessness create works, and make them better. A part of me wishes I was motivated to create without the boredom and restlessness driving me, but in another sense, I am content with my own personal reasons for writing when I write.

I will have to consult with my best friend about how to move forward, because he is the one that spends all his time doing this (within my small circle of people). I’m sure that reading will be a part of it; developing patience and the willpower to get lost in a book. Once again, I always fear what I’m missing out on, regardless of what I’m actually engaged in. I’m growing tired of this, however, and I need something that I can commit to. Sadly, I have a feeling this is going to include reading, writing, acting, filming, and comedy, and just thinking about how much work will be involved makes me want to, once again, close the word processor and go back to watching Youtube videos. But there’s also the side of me growing restless.

My best friend and I have talked about this before several times: eventually, you just become bored with what you’re doing. Everyone does. All creative people go through phases. They do something, then they change it up. This is my first small, slow step towards changing it up.

I can’t keep writing the same things over and over and over (or, at least, I want to work on not doing that).

Also, something that I consider that may (or may not) surprise you: what if I’m actually an idiot? I don’t think so, but past experience makes me doubt myself. And what of the writers that I think are intelligent, but are widely ignored or dismissed? How will I handle the thought of me writing things that are intelligent, but also widely ignored and dismissed? I suppose the simple answer is “practice makes perfect”, and I don’t know how I’ll react if I become as reviled and ignored as someone such as, say, Murray Rothbard (for you simpletons, I’m not comparing my writing to Rothbard, but am merely asking the question: what if I become as obscure and disrespected as he is? How would I handle that? That feels like the worst-case scenario for me as a writer, which is why I brought the example up).

Word choice, editing, and confidence will (obviously) be a big part of “getting sucked into the world of writing”. But the next big step is to figure out how to do it without becoming overwhelmed (and, thus, disinterested) in it all……

I think the key, for me, will be small steps.

I want more confidence in myself, and to be less concerned with what others have to say about my works. Contentment and bringing my creative visions to life (and a lot of money) are what I desire. I know that I will become more confident the more I practice. Now, it’s just finding the desire to treat this as a full-time endeavor (God forbid?). Once again, I have uncertainty regarding writing. How much do I want to do it? And when? Maybe that means I’m not a “real” writer. Maybe I’m just a poser. But I’m a poser with things to say, so I’d consider myself a writer, even if only part-time.

All I know is that I want to do it. I couldn’t say how, nor what, nor how much, exactly. Time will determine all of those answers.

Thank you for reading the thoughts of a bumbling idiot. I may or may not resume bumbling idiocy after intermittent messages similar or dissimilar to the ones you’ve just read here.

(There’s the witty, snazzy note I was praying that I’d end on, thank God. Oh yeah, and this one is as well. And this one).

A Philosopher’s Mind.

Highly Sensitive Mind.

A Labor of Love

One of the greatest (if not the greatest) things about being human is the ability to love.

Full disclaimer: at the time of this writing, I am a happily single man.

So, I am not here to discuss romantic love, nor of friendship, nor of the still yet different type of love that comes with family.

Not sexual passion, but passion regarding occurrences that aren’t quite relationships.

Feeling is what it means to be alive; one that does not feel is not alive, but is merely living.

The difference between the two is as evidenced as the fucked-up nose on Michael Jackson’s face at the end of his life.

If it were not for happiness, life would not be worth living.

This is most evidenced by people who are depressed, or who have “completed” their depression by killing themselves, and who leave a note that says, in different ways, that “life isn’t worth living anymore.”

So “feeling good” is why we live; it may not be why humanity was created (or evolved; I mean this in no controversial “religion vs. science” debate), but it is why we don’t all go kill ourselves at any given moment: we don’t want to, and we don’t want to because of our feelings: because we’re happy enough not to.

Feelings are why we live, and why we do things. They are why we propose, why we kill, and, indeed, why we take any action at all. To be human is to act upon feelings. This doesn’t mean that one acts upon all feelings that one has, but rather that all actions (including an apparent lack of action) are determined by feelings. This does not mean that we do not take calculated risks. Humans are also capable of grasping reality (to differing degrees), and often, our desires conflict with realities. We wish for this, but reality says this. This does not mean that we do what we initially desired all of the time. But, our desires are still at play here behind our decisions, for at the root of every decision is a desired result. The ultimate desire may be to be able to eat whatever one wants without suffering health problems. But scientific reality will determine whether or not one is fortunate enough to do such. However, if the reality does not allow one to do such, then the individual may either continue believing that he can do such, and do it to the detriment of his health in what sane people refer to as “insanity” (obviously not because he is unhealthy, but because he believes it to not be doing what it is actually doing), or he can compromise. However, he will still be acting towards a desire. If he desires better health, he will have to compromise on his eating habits. If he desires to continue eating unhealthy, then he will more than likely have to compromise with the length of time that he lives, and either recognize that and accept it before he dies, or continue living believing that he can live for a “long” period of time (but, ultimately, this is less likely to be the case, so it is still, ultimately, a “compromise”). For better or worse, we are creatures of passion, and we are creatures capable of action, and we are creatures whose actions are determined by said passions (with the source of said passions, no doubt, being discussion of a good debate (free will vs. determinism, no doubt)).

With that being said, what is it that makes us feel? The best answer that I can come up with (and one that I think many other people can and have came up with as well) is that it is simply our nature. Nature is simply that which “is”, whether or not that “is” was created for this reason or for that reason (whether life exists because God wants it to be that way, or because it was all just a random, happy coincidence). Nature is simply all that life is; there is no existence which is opposite to nature. This doesn’t mean just trees and animals, but rather anything which can be objectively perceived by the human mind (fundamental laws of physical phenomena, etc.). The fact that humans feel is another one of these undeniable truths, such as the “laws” of motion, and that we all must die someday.

I hope that a day never goes by that I don’t stand back and marvel at the fact that we, as humans, have comprehension abilities. Indeed, it is our ability to comprehend that gives our lives meaning at all. It is “natural” that human beings are creatures capable of learning, and indeed, it is inconceivable to imagine a world where man was not able to understand anything. Even those widely regarded as fools understand something. It is the greatest gift that has been bestowed upon mankind, for I cannot imagine a world where no one was able to understand anything. The fact that man (even if a relatively small number of human beings) can understand things so seemingly random (but yet obviously patterned) as hydrodynamics (I’d love to be able to completely understand the beautiful patterns that water can create simply due to its nature and the natures of whatever force causes said water to move in the first place), and other technical fields of scientific inquiry is simply a marvel. But not only are some select humans capable of understanding the natural world: there are people who are able to take said knowledge and apply it practically to better “the common man”.

But, as I said before, humans are feeling creatures. Sometimes, those feelings are destructive. But, I would argue, most of the time, they aren’t. It’s just that the brief occurrences of destruction are so horrific that it feels like we are more destructive as a species than we are constructive. I don’t personally believe that, but I do concede there is a great amount of man-made horror in the world; traditionally unspeakable horror…

In addition to humans being feeling creatures, humans are also diverse from one another. What is it that categorizes one as being “human”? Typically, references to being able to feel love are given. To be able to “love thy fellow man.” That the ability to love is the shared bond between us all as humans, and that is what makes us human (at least according to one view). But, for one, animals can feel love. Anyone with a dog that isn’t an asshole can see this. Is it as deep as human love? I don’t think so. But you’d have to define what it is about human love that makes us human, and be able to distinguish that from animal love, and I’m currently unable to do that, so I prefer a different definition as to what makes one “human”. And secondly, what of the psychopath? Is he still not technically human, even if inhumane? I would argue: of course he is.

Humans are born as independent creatures, capable of exercising their wills. From a religiously existential point of view, I don’t think we have free will. I do not think that we have free will from a sovereign God, but that does pose some interesting questions about the Fall of Man that I am unable to answer. Nonetheless, I don’t think we really have it at all. I’ll also leave that opinion for another topic and leave you, the reader, to personally crucify it. But it is inarguable that humans do have wills, and each individual human will is free and separate from the human wills of others, unless a crime against humanity is being committed. Our will is not free to change the scientific laws of the universe, nor to create the nature of God. It exists within a limited scope, where we, as humans, are born with desires, and make decisions. This, in my opinion, is what it means to be human.

So how would I, personally, explain to you, the reader, my opinions on my own personal humanity? What is it that I love to do? What is it that my will desires? What actions do I take that lead me to believe I will achieve certain results? You must be curious, seeing as how you are reading this. And I will attempt to answer this, but it will necessitate me to be extremely honest with myself, and I think that will be incredibly difficult for me to do at this point in my life. But I shall attempt it nonetheless!

Why do I desire to write? Well, when do I want to write? Typically, it involves the idea. Although I do enjoy the physical act of typing from an aesthetic sense, writing involves ideas. So my ideas are why I desire to write. I have ideas that I believe are meaningful, or significant, on some existential sense; and, indeed, often I feel as if I exist on this planet to write. Writing can be an incredibly painful process to me, but it can also be as natural and flowing as the most pristine river.

Typically, writing occurs very slowly for me. I have gigantic ideas in my head that I would love to write down, but the mental exhaustion is, often, too much. “What, are you writing ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’?”, you may be asking yourself. Well…maybe. The ideas in my head surrounding the writing that I feel the most serious about are often, in my opinion, big ideas. And, quite often, just the mere act of beginning the task exhausts me. Even as I write this paragraph, which is months and months apart from the beginning paragraphs that you have read, exhausts me. Perhaps I am an idiot, and this meager exercise of thought producing such exhaustion from me proves that. I’ll just leave that up to you, the reader, to decide. And if you will be so kind, please don’t tell me what you conclude.

I really don’t know how to gauge myself as a writer. “Why would you want to do that?”, you may ask yourself. Well, I just don’t want to be a shitty writer. I desire to write well. I want to write profound things, do interesting, intelligent things with language. Indeed, I think this is a large part of any (if not, at least, many) writer’s desires. It’s who I am, and it makes me happy. My soul is involved in writing. It isn’t as if I’m writing “an important piece” of writing every single day, but I wait for those moments when I cannot contain myself any longer, and the words just have to flow out. Sitting at a computer screen, struggling for the right word, is not writing to me. That’s fucking torture. That’s horrific. That is not an enjoyable experience to me, and, at least for me, that is not writing.

Writing is that idea that has been sitting in your head for seven months, which has about 15 million things you want to include, but you have no idea how to begin the piece, for fear of not being “inclusive” enough: meaning, not starting in the right spot. Sure, you could start your piece with some bullshit. But what in the fuck are you trying to say? Where you start is a large part of where you end up, and, after it is all done, you have what you have said. And if you want to say something, it’s important that you know where to start. And that’s where I struggle: right at the fucking beginning…

I’m not (necessarily) in a hurry to write. I’m in a hurry to make money. I’m in a hurry to find a career that I enjoy. But I’m not in a hurry to write. It will come when it comes. And I accept this. I do not feel in control of my writing: it fucking controls me, for better or worse. It always has, and it always will. It’s a compulsion: it just fucking comes out, and if I don’t get it down, I feel sick. Nauseous. Something about not getting that “good idea” down on paper makes me nauseous. Something about not bringing that “good idea” to life just makes me sick. I don’t know why. It sounds stupid when I say it. But still yet, if there’s any possibility that I think something is a “good idea”, I will regret it if I don’t at least make note of it. Which is why I have many word documents started with only a title, and nothing else written…

I really hate the way that I write…

Sometimes, I wish that I wrote more often. But I know that if I tried to force myself to write more often, the quality would not be as good. I would lose interest, and then I would, eventually, stop writing anyway. And I’m ok with this. I accept this. It’s a slow process, and that’s frustrating. But I accept it. I know how I believe I get my best work, and I’m happy with that. And that’s good enough for me, even if no one else can stand my writing, for whatever reason(s).

I love the moments when the writing hits me like a lightning bolt. Indeed, those are the only times that the writing occurs. And I know how “professional” writers scoff at that. But I don’t care. My writing is the way that I want it to be, and this includes the process. If this makes me an “entitled brat” or “baby”, then at least I actually enjoy what I’m doing. And that’s all I care about.

I really do wish that I could finish everything that I have started. But I just feel listless, and uninspired, most of the time. Perhaps it’s just laziness, and if it is, I accept that as well. Once again, I don’t want to work hard if I’m not going to enjoy what I’m doing, and I don’t think that I would. But it is discouraging to know that, in the back of your mind, you have so many projects unfinished, and you know their potential, and how much happiness they would bring you if completed. But you still wait, because the time isn’t right. Something isn’t right, and you can’t quite put your finger on it…Once again, it’s probably just that you’re lazy. Accept that.

Now, I suppose I will talk about my dreaded reader (ugh). To be honest, I fucking hate readers of my work. That means I hate YOU. Why do I hate you? What did you ever to do me? Well, let me tell you. First off, you’re going to have an opinion about my work. And I don’t fucking care about that. Hate is enjoyable, and produces laughter, as I write for myself; and hate is inconsequential. But, even as I say that, hate produces self-doubt. How is that? you may ask. If I don’t care, why would you produce self-doubt on my part? That’s a good fucking question. And I don’t fucking know. Yet another reason why I hate you, the reader. And you know what else I hate about you? COMPLIMENTS. Just, don’t. Please don’t. What in the fuck am I supposed to do with it? “That’s good.” Uh…ok? You going to give me money or something? Like (my particular usage of the word “like” right here shows my youth (and my language retardation)), if I’m not getting paid, I don’t care. Because I don’t fucking know what to do with it. I don’t know what to do with it, I don’t know why I don’t know what to do with it, and I don’t care to know why I don’t know what to do with it. It’s just an annoying fucking mess, and I hate all of it. And all of you (lol).

I’m just a writer, and that’s why I write. That’s it. I have stuff that I want to say, I say it, and that’s it. I don’t fucking get anything else about it, other than dreaming about becoming rich through it somehow. But that’s fucking it. That’s all I have about writing. I know that was incredibly enlightening, and this piece will be right up there with King’s “On Writing” as far as discussion of the craft is concerned, but, once again, if you will leave your praise to yourself, I would appreciate that very much.

…And if you can’t understand that I’m being sarcastic, please don’t fucking read anything else of mine ever again, you FUCKING RETARD.

Currently, most of my non-fiction is published here on this blog. And sometimes, I feel a bit crazy. I feel a bit repetitive. I feel like I write about the same things over and over and over. What I believe is the case is that similar ideas that I wish to discuss just overlap between articles: for instance, I’ve written multiple pieces simply about me writing, but I don’t believe that they are all exactly the same. The subject matter is similar, sure. But that is because I want to figure out why I write. The question remains the same in multiple pieces, so they feel similar to me. But I don’t believe they are the same. I believe that many of my pieces of non-fiction overlap. It would be a nightmare for me to organize them and combine them into one gigantic “piece”, chapter by chapter. But I definitely feel as if several pieces of my nonfiction are interconnected. I think the ideas are big, and are connected. (And if I truly am repetitive as a writer, once again, I do not care about you, as the reader. If I truly am insane, and am just rambling incoherent babble, then that is what my destiny as a writer is and I will continue to write. Once again, I don’t fucking care about what readers think about my work. I enjoy positive feedback, but only a little bit. My writing is all about me. I’m a fucking selfish writer, and that’s all I will ever be). Maybe I’m just a bad writer. And if I am: so be it.

Here, I would like to introduce some confusion that I currently feel as an “expressive” type. I have big ideas that I feel are intimately interconnected to one another. And it would feel good to have them all completed, have all of them connected, so that I could say “Wow, look at this. This is a beautiful piece of work.” But why do I want to say that? Who am I going to show that to? I don’t think that I have fully accepted the fact that my work is for me. Because the thing that confuses me is about readers. I can’t accept the fact that I only care about “readers” to the extent that it makes me money. “Making money” has been taboo to me for many, many years. And, much like sexuality, the desire to make money has been suppressed within me by religious fear. It’s hard to accept your sexuality when you’ve been told how sinful it is, and the same thing for a desire to make money. It’s really hard to undo things you have grown up believing. Which is one of life’s greatest tragedies…

In other words, I think that I was put on this earth to write and try to sell my writing. I’ve explained why I write: it’s just what I do. I can’t help myself. I just have to do it. And I don’t do it to make others feel good. I don’t do it for anyone else but me. But, I don’t write and then pile my writings in the corner of my room for them to never see the light of day. Expression is meant to be shared. Words are meant to be shared. I think it is just human nature. We all desire social activity: just along a spectrum, and of different kinds. But the “feedback loop” to me is money.

But why do I struggle with writing? And what is it that I want from it? I’ve talked about how I can become a better writer before, but I don’t know why I struggle with it. I think that my organizational abilities have been compromised over the years by social pressure. Being the “smart kid” leaves you up to a lot of bullying from those that are dumb, and my naturally passive nature just allowed them to walk all over me. So I started sounding just as dumb as them. But I’ve been miserable with my inability to write what I believe is “good”; to be able to speak intelligently in an organized manner. Also, there’s a problem that I have where I don’t feel like anyone understands what I’m saying. I have felt this way for a very long time, and it has been discouraging. Sometimes, it makes me wonder why I say anything at all. But it’s in my heart, and it has to come out, even if people don’t understand what I’m saying. It will just lead what I have to say towards a more depressing direction.

I may have just contradicted myself here. I earlier said that I don’t care what readers think. But then, I said that it is frustrating when people don’t understand what I’m saying. I think the caveat is that I don’t particularly care if a reader likes what I have to say. As long as they get it, I don’t care if they like it. I think that’s the answer to that apparent problem.

It is frustrating when other people don’t see your work as you do. Although this can change over time, I think that many creative types enjoy what they create. Some are driven mad by their perceived lack of ability to do what they wish to do, but I think that many are content with their work. And when someone doesn’t see the beauty of your work as you do, it is frustrating. Is it a natural occurrence that occurs by virtue of various aspects of human nature? Of course. It is an unchangeable reality that we all live in. But it’s precisely “unchangeable realities” that cause the most discomfort and suffering among us as humans.

Also, I’m terrified of being crazy. I’m terrified that my writings truly are, from an objective sense, incoherent babble. I don’t believe that they are. They make sense to me. But, frequently, I have found that they make sense to few others. And when they do make sense to others, I retract from those others, for fear that they will wish to develop a deeper emotional connection with me, and I do not desire that. I truly do have a tortuous personality type from time to time. The same characteristics that make me happy are the same that drive me mad. Actually, come to think of it, maybe it’s just other people that drive me mad…

The answer to me regarding the “crazy writing” problem is that if I am happy with it, and I think it is good, then it is good. I will characterize it as “good”. And I will choose how I wish to react to the reactions of my work. For some reason, it is almost taboo to say this type of thing nowadays. You mean you don’t want to hear any criticism of your work? What if it’s constructive? What if other people have good points? What if it makes you better? What if it makes you more money? My answer would be 1) tell someone who cares then 2) my writing is a very individualistic experience, whereby happiness is experienced on my part through what I write. And I have stated my opinions about the opinions of others about my work above.

“But don’t you want other people to like your work so that they give you money?” Yes. But I do not consider myself a “typical businessman” when it comes to my “art”. Am I going to be a door-to-door writer? “Yes, I’m conducting a survey on what type of writing you like. What genre do you like? How do you like the writing to go?” Of fucking course not. This is the type of attitude that non-writers give to people who dream of becoming professional writers. Honestly, I don’t think their opinion has any actual merit when it comes to the field. Does it have some fucking merit in an existential sense where everyone is entitled to their own opinion? Of course it does, you fucking idiot. But if by heeding their advice, is it going to give me more money? Maybe. But is it going to make me happy? No. Is it going to defeat the purpose of me writing? YES. Then I’m not going to fucking listen to it, and it has no merit for me. “But maybe it would if you would listen!” Fuck. You. I don’t fucking care what you have to say, please shut the fuck up, and tell someone who cares, you fucking good-for-nothing piece of human waste who can only bring others down because you’re too stupid to bring yourself up.

This is why I hate readers. I really fucking hate other people. I hate idiots. I hate people. I hate dumb readers that can’t understand what you’re saying. I hate liars. I won’t even begin to discuss them, for that’s worthy of its own piece. I wish that I was perfectly content being in my own head, where I only allowed people in at my own choosing. I’m too sensitive, and I try too hard to listen to multiple opinions equally and then make a decision. But when multiple opinions are stupid, you just can’t fucking make any sense of it. And you have to tell them it’s stupid. And then they get upset. And it’s just all a big fucking waste of goddamn time. But humans are, sometimes…

This is a bit of a tangent, but I want to discuss fear for a second. People are incredibly easily scared. When a tragedy happens, people become frightened. And when idiots become frightened, they ascribe the wrong diagnosis to what caused the tragedy in the first place. Even smart people can do this in times of stress (or, as I stated earlier, if they are malevolent), but idiots take this to a whole new level. Sadly, there are a large number of idiots in the world. Therefore, the human race is largely affected by said idiots. I don’t know why there are so many idiots in the world (what in the fuck was God thinking?), but there are. And they cause fucking problems. In the politically correct world in which we live, you can’t even discuss idiocy anymore. One more quick tangent: my theory about political correctness is that those who are PC are either stupid or evil. They are either as stupid as those that believe that music, video games, etc. cause violence, or they are as corrupt as those that proudly announce that they are protecting our freedoms by taking them away. They can only be one of the two types.

But idiots run the world. I’m not even talking about politicians. I’m just talking about the problems that idiots cause that affect everyone else around them, and the messes they create that people have to work hard to clean up. One fucking idiot who leans down to pick up their cell phone from the floorboard, completely dipping their head underneath the dash of their car, can cause untold damage to property, and can even fucking kill. Traffic is stopped for everybody (probably for an extended period of time), people are late to work, unsuspecting people hit other unsuspecting people, and, of course, somebody has to clean the fucking mess up. The idiots are a disgrace to humanity… One belligerent, wrong customer holds up the entire line for all of the innocent, unsuspecting, sane, functional members of society. Almost makes you want to be a eugenicist…

“How do you know you aren’t an idiot?” Because I’m fucking smart, that’s how. And I don’t care to explain how I know this to you, because all you’re looking to do is bring me down so you feel better about yourself, so fuck you, you self-conscious bastard. Get some fucking self-esteem. Please. And leave me the fuck alone.

And, of course, there will be some idiots that read this, and that consume other things that I create. I’m not assuming that you’re an idiot: indeed, there will be intelligent people that read this. Maybe some that even want to discuss it, or compliment it. And I’m sure there will be smart people that will have their constructive criticism, and will want to debate. But none of this will change the fact that I fucking hate the cancer known as humanity.

Right about now is the time where some fucking idiots will start comparing me to Eric Harris. Why? Because of the fear and idiocy that I just mentioned. Not to mention the PC bullshit that I just mentioned as well. I’m not saying that trying to prevent violent crime isn’t a noble goal. But for fuck’s sake, people are fucking retarded when it comes to this for reasons that I just mentioned. People can’t stay sane during a tragedy, and that compounds the problem. Mourning is one thing, but if you want to “create a change”, you need to be rational. No amount of tears are going to change this fact.

I’m not going to delve into this too much here (it will be a “subject for another piece” (interconnectedness among pieces. See? I’m not crazy…well…)), but crime prevention is a large topic that I wish to discuss eventually. I’ll simply leave a teaser and say that I’m a bit “Orwellian” in this regard (meaning leaning towards his thoughts: not the thoughts of “Big Brother”).

For some reason, there is just a relief when one expresses oneself. One can be on a deserted island, and let out a primal yell, and somehow, that will soothe their soul, if only for a little while. It is a bit strange to me. I don’t understand why we would desire to express ourselves, even no one else is around to hear it. But there is something about getting what is inside out. It’s not about other people consuming it, or feedback, but just getting it out. It’s like a relief. It just feels good. It’s like you can finally let go of what was in your head. It sits in your head, and stews, and stews, and stews, until it’s completed on paper. And sometimes, even that doesn’t end it.

Describing my writing is very difficult. It is important to me, because I want to understand it. I love to write, and I want to know why. I want to understand myself. Analyze myself. I want to do this, if for no other reason, so that I can move on. To move on to the next piece. But I have discovered something about myself (or, rather, finally admitted something to myself), and that is I am extremely lazy.

I have been afraid of being lazy for a long time. Others’ words about how I’ll be poor forever terrify me. But the thought of doing difficult work that I can’t stand does not appeal to me, either. The balance, for me, is a job that is easy, or something that I love to do (and, obviously, a combination of both preferred). I’ve always been lazy. Always loved taking the easiest way out. And although it has caused problems every now and then, I think that it has not been as bad as people made it out to be to me. Sure, people judged me. But who cares. I’ve been pretty happy about the whole thing. I do kind of worry about what I am actually going to do to make money, and how that is going to affect my happiness in life. But, I know that I am lazy. I have specific things that I enjoy doing, and I do them. There’s a reason I don’t do much else, and it’s because I don’t enjoy much else. I don’t want to try new things. I’m happy with what I’m doing. So, I’m going to do the few things that I enjoy, and do them repeatedly, and see if anyone ends up giving a fuck in the end. I’m not interested in killing myself for success. I am interested in being as lazy as possible, and developing my interests. So progress will be slow, and I can live with that; as long as I don’t fucking listen to anyone else.

When I decide a piece is good, and done, then it is good, and done. When I decide I want to write, I will write. I’ll write when and what I want to write about, and be happy with it when I am happy with it. I just care about being honest. And the monetary stresses that come along with it, I will just have to accept and deal with.

I just hope that I can keep the voices of others out of my head, and focus only on my own…

‘Twill be a long struggle, no doubt……

And I don’t know what to think about the financial aspect anymore (and, of course, I don’t want to be told what to think about it, either).

I think I’m going to end this piece right here.

That’s good……

One more thing…

Nah, I just wanted to fuck with you because I enjoy it.

I want you to be aggravated by thinking about how stupid and immature I am.

I want you to think there’s a lot more to this, when there really isn’t.

Ok, I’m done now.

The Rantings of a Crazed, Lunatic Writer.


What is It That Makes Me Happy as A Writer?

A Declaration of Independence.

Analyzing My Decision-Making.


Murray Rothbard.

My work.

A Philosopher’s Mind.

Highly Sensitive Mind.

A Memorandum on Dreams.

Intelligent expression.

It’s sad that so few people see expressive intelligence as a positive trait.

They could stand to learn a thing or two from these expressionists


A pretty good situation that will HOPEFULLY improve with time and experience…

When I get bored, I can create.

And when I get tired, I can consume.

And then hope and pray that the creation leads to consumption

Where you can financially support me if you so desire (T-shirts included; please share all of these links).

Voluntarism and Capitalism.