Please Kill Me,
There’s a rage that builds when you do this thing.
It’s an underlying discontent that you can’t quite define. It’s borne of every past trauma, unrequited love, neglected moment, broken heart, unpredicted betrayal, etc… etc… etc. (–basically, all the bad stuff that normal people move on from and claim to forget).
When we spend all day in our heads, those devilish droplets of dogshit daydreams ferment and poison the creative wells that we desperately drink from. As you can imagine—it isn’t something that you can “PoSiTivE-VibE” yourself out of. There’s no amount of “wellness” that can cure creativity. (Please shut the light off before you leave.)
That’s not to say it’s a perpetual feeling. You can’t feel one thing ALL OF THE TIME (fear those who do). But it’s there—waiting in the dark basement of our subconscious. Waiting for us to forget. Waiting for us to let go. Waiting for us to gasp for air. THAT’s when it gets you. That’s when the demons grip your goddamn soul.
Seemingly unconnected (but hold on, it might be), I don’t really come on here much nowadays. I see the notifications. I pay the bill. I ponder that
weird (sorry) “updated” new post format and think about bringing the band of crazies in my head back together (…then hanging myself).
But, alas… Those days are rare. The posts are rarer still. I’ve written a few but they were too dark and depressing. Failing that, they were trying too hard or overwrought and overwritten (like a bad Adam Sandler movie or any Pete Davidson anything). This post is probably guilty of that as well.
Needless to say, I’ve gone internal. It was only a matter of time. You don’t get to live in your head for a living without sacrificing the life around it. It’s a fair trade. Don’t pity me. This particular brand of slavery was indeed a choice (#YiggaPlease).
Anyway… Back to the rage. It isn’t the stereotypical “OH GOD!!! WHY DID I CHOOSE THIS?!?!?!” that so many people like to attach to creatives. Nor is it the “OH GOD!!! AM I CRAZY OR DUMB?!?!?!” that narcissists and manipulators like to implant into sed creatives’ heads. Nor again (nor gain??? None again, too…? Whatever. This shit’s free. Ask ChatGPT for perfection) is it the kind of rage that comes from failure (—when you’re a professional artist, failure’s just a Tuesday).
It’s the numbness.
Writers go numb like pornstars getting their assholes Only-Fanned.
I think that’s the rage. Numb-Pornstar Rage.
People watch us get fucked. Then we show up again the next day, all smiles and ready to do it again. “Yes, massa! Deeper, massa!”–it doesn’t help that we live in the kind of shit-eating culture that hits record before 911. But I digress…
It’s a knowing rage. Knowing the butt-fucking isn’t worth it and clocking in any way. Knowing that (at this point) it’s the only way to do what I love. Knowing that it can all be gone due to one bad day (or one bad attitude in the right position of power).
This is my dream come true. Yip-the-fuck-eeee!
On a lighter note, I’m not here to complain or tell you to rise up. I’m here to vent (because I can’t just keep screaming at homeless people when I’m boiling over #CaliforniaLove). So, I hope you take this in that same careless cavalier spirit.
If you’re looking for an update on me: Things are fine. Work is good and consistent enough that my blood pressure is reasonable. Not so good that I can flip you off, wag my dick, and parachute away. I’m somewhere in the middle…
But that’s where I like to be.
Anyway, keep an eye out for some stuff. I’ve been a busy little rage monkey.
Until Next Time,