So, over the previous weekend, my enthusiasm for my fledgling blogging career waned substantially and I'm a little disappointed with myself. Actually, I'm more than a little disappointed and it has caused me to procrastinate and avoid free writing for several days. Oh, and I've been working on this post for about three hours now and this is as far as I've gotten. Ah, procrastination, where would I be without you? I don't know, but I'll totally look into it later.
I have recently discovered, or at least brought up into my consciousness, the fact that I am a dreamer. A romantic. A person who does not always live in reality. A completely fucking insane human being. I'll elaborate: a few weeks ago when I was renewing my vows to this medium, it was so full of possibilities. I was going to create this blog, post all this cool stuff on it, and it would be some kind of overnight sensation! There would be publishers contacting me, bursting with excitement about my fantastic, ground-breaking take on the world we all live in! Of course, book deals would not only be a possibility, but pretty much inevitable; I mean, who could resist such profound prose, right? Fame and fortune would be right around the corner, oh yeah, with awards too! Celebrities and other members of the cultural elite would flock to me, just to be seen (it'd up their street cred' SO MUCH) and to share in my general state of awesomeness. I'd, naturally, be totally cool with them and we would regard each other as equals and go chill at Starbucks or something. But not the regular Starbucks, the celebrity Starbucks. You know, the ones with the string quartets and the crystal goblets and the pumpkin spice lattes year round, and the- wait, I guess you wouldn't know! Pfha. aha. ha. (dry, crusty, rich-person laugh). Oh, and I'd also be totally hot and in perfect shape and, just in general, the best author ever. In my brain, all those things will happen just because of my raw, uncompromising talent. Um, yeah, I'm definitely a dreamer....
The problem with dreams, with wild, outlandish, ridiculously detailed and well thought out dreams, is that they never happen. Or if some kind of version of them does materialize, it's not what I had envisioned. In short, I always let myself down. I am always disappointed with the outcome because it's not exactly how I had thought about it for hundreds of hours. Here's how it works in here: I think about something I want to have happen (i.e. jobs, money, revenge, scandalous affairs, world domination, etc.), then I contemplate how said event would occur. A lot. I do this by running various scenarios, practicing my reactions, and actually real emotions, contained entirely in my neurons, synapses, re-uptakes, etc. (yeah, that's right, I took Psych 101 in college. Suck on that!), or maybe I mime a little when no one is watching, whatever, don't judge me! Here's an example: my dream-induced perfect match (usually some kind of famous person that I've never met) and I meet by some coincidental means (i.e. at that award ceremony honoring me, or the photo-shoot for the cover of that popular magazine), we share furtive glances, shy dispositions and an undeniable sexual chemistry. We arrange to meet; hot, steamy rendezvous follow, and then we fall in love and live happily ever after. Or there's some kind of terrible blimp accident and one or both of us die. It depends on the day.
Nothing wrong with a little harmless fantasy, you say? But what happens when my beloved thought-mate does or says something in real life that I hadn't expected, or just turns out to be an asshole? I experience real, actual heartbreak. It has effected my real life and my real relationships. Jesus, that sounds so lame and stupid on paper. Well, I guess I'm typing this on my laptop and therefore it's technically not on paper, but why would you bring something like that up at a time like this, when I'm pouring my heart out?! Seems unnecessary to me and even a little bit cruel. Anyway, I live inside too much, and imagine so vividly and so often that it gets too real and goes on for far too long.
After the endorphin rush of my impending international popularity faded and I simultaneously spent the weekend with family and friends out in Actual-Burg instead of Brainsylvainnia, I slipped back down into my usual self: second guessing my comedic instincts, marinating in self-hatred, hopelessness, and adding just a dash of resentment towards... everyone, I guess. Hey, if you add some Jack Daniels, BAM; ya got the perfect Unhappiness Cocktail. Gets you just drunk enough to be an asshole, but not so drunk that you can forget what you did the next morning. Also, the hangovers are just awful and occur not only after cocktail hour, but during! And before too, somehow; it's weird and I wouldn't recommend it.
So, long story short, that's why it took me 7 days to write my second post instead of 3 (which is what I assumed my rate of updates would be for no in-particular reason ). Maybe if I continue to scoop out this brain-shaped carton of concoctions, schemes and subsequent expectations, and release them into cyberspace, they won't take up as much time, effort and space in my life. Maybe then I'll be able to figure out the difference between making goals and fantas-ta-sizing and actually DO something with my life. Probably not, but hey, a blogger can dream, right?
GODDAMMIT!
I have recently discovered, or at least brought up into my consciousness, the fact that I am a dreamer. A romantic. A person who does not always live in reality. A completely fucking insane human being. I'll elaborate: a few weeks ago when I was renewing my vows to this medium, it was so full of possibilities. I was going to create this blog, post all this cool stuff on it, and it would be some kind of overnight sensation! There would be publishers contacting me, bursting with excitement about my fantastic, ground-breaking take on the world we all live in! Of course, book deals would not only be a possibility, but pretty much inevitable; I mean, who could resist such profound prose, right? Fame and fortune would be right around the corner, oh yeah, with awards too! Celebrities and other members of the cultural elite would flock to me, just to be seen (it'd up their street cred' SO MUCH) and to share in my general state of awesomeness. I'd, naturally, be totally cool with them and we would regard each other as equals and go chill at Starbucks or something. But not the regular Starbucks, the celebrity Starbucks. You know, the ones with the string quartets and the crystal goblets and the pumpkin spice lattes year round, and the- wait, I guess you wouldn't know! Pfha. aha. ha. (dry, crusty, rich-person laugh). Oh, and I'd also be totally hot and in perfect shape and, just in general, the best author ever. In my brain, all those things will happen just because of my raw, uncompromising talent. Um, yeah, I'm definitely a dreamer....
The problem with dreams, with wild, outlandish, ridiculously detailed and well thought out dreams, is that they never happen. Or if some kind of version of them does materialize, it's not what I had envisioned. In short, I always let myself down. I am always disappointed with the outcome because it's not exactly how I had thought about it for hundreds of hours. Here's how it works in here: I think about something I want to have happen (i.e. jobs, money, revenge, scandalous affairs, world domination, etc.), then I contemplate how said event would occur. A lot. I do this by running various scenarios, practicing my reactions, and actually real emotions, contained entirely in my neurons, synapses, re-uptakes, etc. (yeah, that's right, I took Psych 101 in college. Suck on that!), or maybe I mime a little when no one is watching, whatever, don't judge me! Here's an example: my dream-induced perfect match (usually some kind of famous person that I've never met) and I meet by some coincidental means (i.e. at that award ceremony honoring me, or the photo-shoot for the cover of that popular magazine), we share furtive glances, shy dispositions and an undeniable sexual chemistry. We arrange to meet; hot, steamy rendezvous follow, and then we fall in love and live happily ever after. Or there's some kind of terrible blimp accident and one or both of us die. It depends on the day.
Nothing wrong with a little harmless fantasy, you say? But what happens when my beloved thought-mate does or says something in real life that I hadn't expected, or just turns out to be an asshole? I experience real, actual heartbreak. It has effected my real life and my real relationships. Jesus, that sounds so lame and stupid on paper. Well, I guess I'm typing this on my laptop and therefore it's technically not on paper, but why would you bring something like that up at a time like this, when I'm pouring my heart out?! Seems unnecessary to me and even a little bit cruel. Anyway, I live inside too much, and imagine so vividly and so often that it gets too real and goes on for far too long.
After the endorphin rush of my impending international popularity faded and I simultaneously spent the weekend with family and friends out in Actual-Burg instead of Brainsylvainnia, I slipped back down into my usual self: second guessing my comedic instincts, marinating in self-hatred, hopelessness, and adding just a dash of resentment towards... everyone, I guess. Hey, if you add some Jack Daniels, BAM; ya got the perfect Unhappiness Cocktail. Gets you just drunk enough to be an asshole, but not so drunk that you can forget what you did the next morning. Also, the hangovers are just awful and occur not only after cocktail hour, but during! And before too, somehow; it's weird and I wouldn't recommend it.
So, long story short, that's why it took me 7 days to write my second post instead of 3 (which is what I assumed my rate of updates would be for no in-particular reason ). Maybe if I continue to scoop out this brain-shaped carton of concoctions, schemes and subsequent expectations, and release them into cyberspace, they won't take up as much time, effort and space in my life. Maybe then I'll be able to figure out the difference between making goals and fantas-ta-sizing and actually DO something with my life. Probably not, but hey, a blogger can dream, right?
GODDAMMIT!
No comments:
Post a Comment