*eats 4 slices of pizza*
im so full
*eats another 4 slices of pizza*
I have a huge secret. It’s not so big now that I’ve finally told people, but it still feels embarrassing, kind of like the time my mom told a photographer I needed to be a model even though I don’t believe nor do I want that. But in my heart of hearts, I have always wanted to be a comedian. And every time I say it I want to quote one of my favorites, who talks about how surprised everyone was that he wanted to make people laugh for a living because he was so awkward. The worst part, too, is that I have awful stage fright, and for lack of a better word, incredible performance anxiety. If my comedy is being judged it will get a sad soft dick. I wish I could change it, but even when I get mad I can barely vocalize why because they are grouped into the same part of my brain: confrontation. But a few weeks ago, I had a beautiful conversation with my older sister, where a lot of animosity was destroying our relationship, especially in the sense that I believed she encouraged me to careers that she sought out for her own interest. Finally, though, I actually said what I wanted to do, and 100%, it’s just to make people smile. I don’t need some hearty, guttural laugh from every person I see. And I don’t know how to make it a career, it’s not like I’d be an expert in it, but all I know is I want to make people happy in the simplest meaning of the word. Knowing that, with every awful presumption people have said against me, realizing what general society thinks of atheists, what being an outspoken drinker with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth has given a certain unruly look, I know I’m a good person. And with my unreasonable bouts of depression and anxiety I deserve to tell that to myself. This is my drunk ramble to my sober self, as horribly written as it is, while my smoke is falling between my fingertips trying to type, I sincerely hope that sober me can be nearly as hopeful as I am with a few drinks holed up in my room.
"Write drunk, edit sober"
I have read that quote so many times. Literally over and over again on some hipster blog or another, some way to justify the binging society we live in through the overexposed media these seemingly ‘deep’ individuals have access to. I will admit it, I am a complete and total lush. And I like the words I say when I am drunk. Maybe I’m looking at them through beer goggles like we judge our potential prey at the bar before we go home. But I do get sentimental, it’s the only time I honestly feel comfortable opening up and really digging into the issues that have followed and festered inside of me all these years. But it doesn’t make me more creative. I’m not enjoying this piece even as I write it. The only difference is that I’m alone with about 8 beers in me and for once actually feel the gumption and motivation to write that has avoided me for a few months, and even in that time has been uninspired and dull.
I’ve been realizing throughout the years, and especially lately in my lazy mindset, how wonderful it would be to be a muse. Don’t get me wrong, I always wanted a song written about me, which most likely stems my sad gravity toward any type of musician, but to justify my real desire, I want to be somebody’s driving force. When I was young I thought I was shiny and new and overflowing with new potential. Yet, I wasn’t encouraged, I wasn’t nurtured, and to be completely honest I got lazy and stopped pushing for what I thought my past potential could bring me. And now I still feel like I have something to offer, maybe. Hopefully my words can bring somebody clarity and inspiration, and even as my shyness leaves me and my extroversion shows, I feel less lively and so incredibly numb and dumb. I talk a lot, I am horribly aware of that fact, and I’ve realized that as accidental speaking is now, compared to when I could have died of extroversion, these words, that I write alone and excluded without distraction, they become so much less valuable. I talk to the people I’m comfortable with, and everything I say comes easily. It takes one extra second and I feel like I’m on the verge of a breakthrough. But the more social I get, the thoughts that I write down, the passages that got me through my silly over-hormonal yet brainwashed years mean so much less. What I’m trying to say now even seems too public. Yes I know this is a public site, but my mind has become completely accustomed to the folks surrounding me. My introverted moment are spent eyes glazed playing some stupid number game while reruns of shows I know by heart play in the background. And when I do create, especially in the realms of illustration, it is the artificial being of what I am willing for the world to see, not exactly an expression of myself. Of course, I do know that my best works and my most skillful tactics have been caused by the catalyst of imagining what other people would think. But I do pride myself on being authentic, and I like to believe that I am genuine and sincere, and if you do disagree with those things then I am at least incredibly adaptable to the people around me, and I only change to make the environment more tolerable but with my own being included. My only justification for being so concerned by the ideas of others is that the satisfaction of others is a beautifully empathetic feeling, and by being the cause makes me at least feel worthwhile.
Just because someone desires you, it does not mean that they value you.
Read it over.
Let those words resonate in your mind.
Real life. Happening now.