Once again I raise the pen, laying it heavily, drunkenly on the paper which refuses to lie about the absolute ludricrousness of the written drunken word.
It grows within me. It manifests itself in rants and
The story of my writing life.
Had I chosen to write forever, my life would have been hard. Or at least, the work part would have been hard. I have chosen the 'easy' life. Making money for others and giving away what little creativity I'm allowed, for wages. Tragedy is, I see myself carrying this chip and I understand that only I can choose to free myself from the doldrums of day to day life. I know I have the stuff, but I can't find the strength to gamble. dammit.
Can I write? Does anyone want to know it? Dammit. I've got to write something more than the rantings of a frustrated guy. I've got to audition. That's got to be easier than writing. HA! TYPICAL! Take the easy way! Even though it's not an option yet, I've dismissed it. Moving to LA was/is a good thing. Y'know, I guess I am looking for myself still. She knows me, but do I know myself?
Day 2. Went to the beach.
Day 3. Went to the beach, got drunk.
Day 4. Definately did not get drunk. Ha Ha. I wish fame were as easy as creativity, I'd be beyond famous, as everybody should be. F-ing world. Run by us? Run by assholes? dammit!
What happened to virtuosity? It never happened. What happened
It never happened.
What happened to truth?
We forsaked the Ten goddamned Commandments.
-Guest Ranter, circa July 1997