Write Wingin' It

So I am sitting at my desk at work, at a job that I have come to slowly but surely despise (although it’s more the surroundings in which I work rather than the job itself). And I am eating mortadella by the slice, having decided to forego putting it on the crackers I have here — all while sucking in my gut so I don’t look too much like a slovenly fuck should any of my colleagues happen to pass by.

I have become acutely aware of something that is apparently coming to a simmer within me, something akin to the realization that I should be writing and I am not. This has been going on for weeks upon weeks (and, if we’re really being honest here, years), and the mere thought of actually sitting down and writing results in for real stomachaches. And I suppose the mortadella also plays its role in my digestive soap operas.

And even as I am writing now — stomach: in knots. Not be to confused with Don Knots.

The brutal honesty of it all is that my job is also doing its part to wreak havoc on my soul, and I feel like I should’ve done more over the last 10 years to actually get to where I wanted to be. Where is that? I’m not sure, but I think it involves actually being creative for a living … and it certainly isn’t here. Since no one can break open my brain to bask in the glory of what are surely some phenomenal (eh, or maybe better-than-mediocre) thoughts, it’s time I stopped being such a pussy and started to actually DO something. Write. No more assuming that there is someone out there who can do it better than me (so why bother), no more assuming that no one wants to read what I write. No more planning to really get into writing … someday.

This Monday is someday, goddamn it.