So, how long has it been? March huh? Holy fuck. Well, for some fucked up reason I decided to post this morning. It might be that I keep getting my ass handed to me in Warcraft in a strangely polite manner. It's as if an english butler is approaching me apprehensively at a party where everyone's suit costs $800 and says, "Excuse me sir, but we have found your ass." And then he casually hands it to me and strides off.

Yeah, glad you could come with me on that. I've been getting annihilated, and that makes it much less fun. On that note, I've got this kind of stream of consciousness meta-writing that I worked on while I was away. It's strange, but fits in well as a return post.


So it’s been a while hasn’t it? It most certainly has. Longer than I’ve ever planned to go without seeing you. I missed you, you know. Pouring out my thoughts, sifting through them, searching for so much as a sparkle among the riverbed gravel. It’s never really mattered to me whether it was just a penny from the 1950’s, worth about a cent and long forgotten by the world’s economy or a nugget of precious metal. I’ve never really cared, it’s the shine that draws me, that keeps me doing this.
Because when you write, you forget what you’ve written eventually, even though it’s still there. It’s at that point that reading it, without any association between the current self and the state of the work that you can proofread without hurting your pride, and enjoy what you’ve written. As Vonnegut puts it, you sometimes think: “I did that?!”
Maybe that’s the feeling I search for when I do this. Maybe that’s the feeling I search for in everything I’ve done. Other people’s appreciation or admiration is quite well and good as a means of instant gratification, but when you see something you’ve done and think Vonnegut’s thought, which I’ve shamelessly pirated, that’s a longer lasting, fuller feeling.
Well, I’ve driven that idea into the ground, but I guess I’m still writing. That happens, I keep talking when I have nothing to say, much like I type the words that aren’t even formulated in my brain before they go to my fingers.
This is how I started writing comedy. I wrote and wrote and it just starting coming out of me. Now it feels like the well is dried up, I don’t have anything funny to say. I feel like, since I’m not really writing comedy, performing would be phony, or false somehow.
Hrm, I guess I need a cigarette. Anyway, I’m back. It’s amazing to me, looking at this paragraph, that no matter how long I’m gone it’s still only two spaces to you. It’s because you’re so forgiving. So understanding. I can spend as long as I want away from you, and when I come back you’re here. Not waiting for me, but right where I left you. In stasis. Probably the only form of time travel I’ll experience in this lifetime.
Maybe I feel that I have nothing important to say. That could be it, but it’s not. No, it can’t be, because if it was, I wouldn’t write at all.

It’s been even longer this time. Long enough that I look at our first paragraph together last time, and I think to myself “That’s not so bad.” I miss you so much more now than I did before. I feel like we’ve been apart so long, we’ll never learn how to live together again.
I know you don’t feel that way. You never do, of course. It’s a return key to you, but for me it’s been months. Months of shit. I’ve been happy the majority of the time I’ve been away, but it’s a happiness I know everybody feels as they live their lives a day at a time.
You get a job, you work at your job. You spend the money you get from your job when you’re not working at your job. You go home, if you’re lucky, as I am, you eat, you sleep, you fuck someone you love. You waste time in other ways. Watching movies, playing games, drinking, wallowing.
Somehow, perhaps only in my mind, having the job I do lays my entire life out before me, like my thoughts on this page. Uncensored, vulnerable, and altogether disappointing.
I do good work at my job. I sell people things, because that’s what the people that have the money pay me to do. I sometimes disagree with the purchases people make because I know they must work somewhere to get the money they spend while I’m working so I can spend money at other places where a disgruntled clerk will disagree with my leisure activities.
That was a clumsy way of thinking through it, but I know you don’t mind. You’re like a loving parent to me, so caring and protective.
I can just envision myself putting off writing, or any kind of soul searching for 30 years. Working retail and food service as the economy and my mood suits me. Getting married and having children, forgetting everything I’ve dreamt about so often.
Comedy. When I fall asleep, as it’s happening, so many things run through my mind. Much of the time it’s acts at a comedy club, things I could perform and how I’d want them to go. Much of the time it is funny material that I wish I would write down. I don’t though, because moments later I’m asleep and it’s all gone.
Sometimes, especially at work, something happens to me that scares me. I sit and daydream about being interviewed. I’m being interviewed because I’m famous for something. This scares me for several reasons. Firstly, because at work, I’m doing nothing to further my dream of doing comedy. Second, this daydream seems like the self-absorbed dreaming of a person who does nothing with his life but sit behind a counter and watch people purchase commodities.

And there it is. Maybe, if I post again in the next few weeks, I'll talk about something a bit more recent. Now it's time for City of Heroes.