What the hell did I just write? Very stream-of-consciousness and very raw. Mostly about my future as a writer and the other writers in my creative writing class.

I feel like this is it for me; it's time to make a decision. Up until now I've never felt like I needed to make Creative Writing my final major.

There are young, talented people in the class, and they've worked hard to make their work great. Who am I? I don't think my work is great, or any good; and I mean that sincerely, not as an author affecting humility, but as a reader who finishes reading them and goes, What the hell? That was crap!

Everything's so relative, isn't it? Some people think other people are crap; other people love some people. Nothing is definitely going to happen. There's no guarantee those talented people will ever write outside of the class, will ever find an agent and publish work. Who's gonna guarantee them that? Nobody. If anyone ever guarantees you anything, they're nobodies; they don't know what the hell the score is. They're the ones looking at the stars--I imagine in a giant soccer stadium with the flood lights on full-blast--trying to find the faint stars through the pollution, and saying, And we'll all live in harmony and everyone will love each other and nobody is gonna ever die again, I guarantee it. Who the hell guarantees anything? That's what I want to know.

Anyway, so there's no guaranteeing the people in my writing class will ever publish and become successful writers--actual, honest-to-god writers who get paid. Isn't that every budding writers dream? To get paid to write. And if the stuff they write isn't very good, but they still get paid? Now wouldn't that be something. Of course, like any field, there are good writers and bad writers, and sometimes the bad writers gross more than the good writers, etc., whatever. My point is this: the talented writers in my class, they have something I don't; I see it clearly. They're good writers--or at least decent writers who can see good writing on the horizon--because they work hard. I guarantee (look at this guy guaranteeing) that they've worked hard for long hours, which is why they're so good. Turning back to me, I don't work hard. I slack off, laze about, think a bit, then push out some half-coherent drivel about a car accident and the pain of youth or whatever. Do you see the problem here? I don't practice! Goddammit, I don't practice. I put it off, kick it further down the road, push it until the very last moment, then scribble a few lines about "causers and victims"--what the hell does that even mean? I mean, what the hell is wrong with me that I'm afraid to try? I'm afraid to put pen to paper, and write and think and try. Fear is so powerful an inhibitor--as much as alcohol is an uninhibitor. Except I'm always drunk off my flying ass off fear. My life changes because of it; every action, decision, impulse, thought is tinged in fear. I'm so disappointed in myself. Seriously, I think it's something tragic that I must address now. There's no great climax or rising action or pivotal catch-all scene where I must decide; the great moment is a Thursday in November an odd number of days from Thanksgiving while sitting in my car on a foggy night in my college's parking lot. That's the time for me to decide.

So what will it be? Will I choose the blue pill, or the red pill? My life, my decisions, my consequeses--isn't that how it's suppposed to go? Yes.

Unfortunately, I just can't decide. To write, or not to write--that's the mother-flippin' question. A writer, or not a writer; stories, or no stories; fiction, or not-fiction. What the hell, man? Why you gotta treat me so rough, Life? I'm given tremendous opportunity, and I complain; that's the extent of my ungratefulness.

I've decided. Just like that the decision is made. I told you it isn't a climactic scene of kissing in the rain 2,000 miles away from home. I choose to write (I guess). I want to become great. I want to write great stories so bad... Who the hell says that? If you're gonna be a writer, don't do it for the money. Chances are the money's shit, your stories are shit, and everyday you contemplate how to improve yourself while absolutely nothing comes to mind. How do I consume greatness? I suppose it's self-made. Shit.

About my unexceptional self, and then it goes into this weird, Great Pyramid of Giza enfueled tangent. But it's all good. Also, I think I just made up the word 'enfueled.'

I realized today that I am average.

I am not a savant or a genius, nor was I a child prodigy. I am not unique or especially talented in any way. Sure, I have abilities other people do not have, but I also have deficits other people do not have. Everything balances out.

Convincing children they are special and vastly important inflates their ego and only sets them up for a cold shock when the world shows them differently. Our generation feels entitled despite having done absolutely nothing beneficial or relevant or even interesting. (Well, at least some people.)

Look at this amazing picture!

I'm always telling myself, One day my life will feel complete; one day I will be the best self I can be. But why can't that one day be today? No money means no independence. Okay, fair point. But what I mean is, If there is something I am capable of doing--it doesn't hurt other people, I won't get caught and go to jail for 90 years, etc.--and the only reason I haven't done it yet is because I'm afraid, then, fuck it, I'll do it anyways. Seriously, why let fear keep me down, control me and not allow me to grow, when I could just say, Okay, let's do it. Why not? Someday we will die, and there's no going back. I know I've got (hopefully) fifty or perhaps sixty years of life to go, but if I don't start improving my life now, when I have the time and energy, then when will I finally begin, at what exact point in time, down to the smallest possible microsecond any machine could possibly calculate, will I begin to improve my life for myself? Never. If not began now, never.

I've been thinking about a girlfriend

Been thinking about relationships a lot lately. I need one, I want one. They aren't so bad, are they? Someone to kiss, someone to hold. Isn't it normal to think this way at 20? It's biological; nothing could be more natural. We are animals, thinking animals--praying and studying and driving cars and piloting airplanes. Liars don't use contractions, they like to formalize their language--deliberation is deception. Why do we have relationships? Companionship, sexual gratification or release, a sense of belonging--a dimmed sense of unmitigated loneliness. Loneliness seems the best natural state of humans. We do not learn as children how to be lonely, we just know somehow when we're born that ourselves aren't enough when pitted against the world in this arena. You're the same, you're the same, you're the same. The same as me, the same as me. I wonder: how lonely is everybody today? I'm feeling quite lonely, quite desperate. Natural inclination to breed and explore. What's the difference when it happens? Who do I wait for? Myself, my lonely self.

Relationships: some never leave one, some never need one. I need one.

This whole life situation

Sometimes it's hard to think about--this whole life situation. It's true that money dictates everything; it's the fuel for living. A part of me hates that, though it does accept the truth. That's the thing about truth: you may not have to like it, but you must accept it. What is true anyways? Anyways.

Like I said, part of me hates this life situation: get born, grow up, go to school, job, career, career, family, struggle, retirement(?), death, gone. And money keeps it running. It's so predictable. The youthful, creative side of me is inside right now, shaking his head, saying, "No, no, no, no; my life won't be like that." Oh, really?

Sometimes it's hard to live knowing money will dictate my life. Is there a way to escape? What do I want out of life anyway? It's painful to think about.

Twoday at the Fair

I just came back from the fair. I'm in a fatigued/overstimulated/deep-fried brain condition.

My friends and I walked a lot, talked a lot, joked a lot, and sat a bit. We only ate once between the hours of 1 and 11. I had a calzone; everyone else gobbled down ginormous slabs of turkey leg and meat on a stick.

Today I learned that I deeply value dependability. My ride almost stranded me miles away from home. Reliability is important to me, and will continue to stay important in my life until I die. I don't trust people who repeatedly fall behind their words.

Actions do not simply speak louder than words; they shout, jump, scream, leap, hiss, clap, spank; they punch out your cousin; they save your ass from a burning building. Words are thoughts full of hot air.

Another one

I wish there was no doubt. I wish I knew exactly what I loved. I wish I knew lots of authors and read lots of books so that I, too, could throw ambiguous names out in conversation.

I wish I wasn't so bad at meeting new people. I wish I was more charismatic and charming, someone more gregarious and someone people feel comfortable around.

I wish my hair didn't smell right now. I wish I didn't feel sick; I wish I was sick, so at least I know why I feel sick. I wish I would go to bed.

I wish I wasn't so concerned. I wish I was more patient, kind, sensitive to my family, to my friends, to strangers. I wish for greatness, fame, glory, praise, reverence, honor. I wish I could be great for myself, by myself. I wish I could move and touch people. I want to connect. I wish for a great life.

(correction: it doesn't bother me that my hair smells)

My Friends Wedding

Last Saturday my friend got married. My other friends got drunk and I even danced (I don't drink). After I dropped them off at the after-party, I went home. Someone left their cell phone and another person left their glasses in my car. When I searched my trunk for my jacket the next morning I discovered someone had taken it by mistake. Overall, a crazy, strange, surreal night full of drunk, partying, merry people. A nice wedding.