I have finished my official first full work of week. A mind-numbing dozen and a half or so to go.
Tonight's capture fragment of perception: Watch the prancing step of two bright red feet on a fat pigeon with a tuft of white atop its head like some kind of bird mohawk.
I had a relevatory thought as I manned my desk. No, Seriously. I was thinking again about why I don't write stories or essays, after totally blowing it off since I left university. That was eight months ago. I've been trying to come around to the truth that you really can't be a writer unless you actually write. Amazing as that truth may seem. Although there is some reality behind the excuse that I can't seem to write what I really want to, long as I live under the auspices of my father's money, which I've done all my life. There is a nebulous fear, usually irrational, that if anything I write, gets out, somehow it will piss my father off and he'll finally pull the proverbial rug from right underneath me. It's what I call the velvet choker. But then that shouldn't stop me, really. So this move might remove my last really good excuse. But then when I saw that.. I wondered how much more I've been holding back because of this excuse. And I had the harshest reflection I've had in a long time. "I am really funny?" I mean, if I'm holding back what I think from paper... what else am I holding back? It was an asskicker. Now, I don't know.. I'm still working on this one. So far, I think I'm still funny, but how much funnier could I be if I just finally let go. I make people laugh. I am funny. Man, independence is just getting scarier by the moment, but somehow it's an optimistic terror.
Oh, there was one more thing. I promised myself I wouldn't use this blog as a kvetch launcher.. but in this case, I must. I was riding home on the subway tonight and I saw this mid-20's white guy wearing an expensive denim outfit from Russel Simmon's Phat Farm, which was easy to tell since the damn label was sewn in the shirt in bright red embroidery. He was wearing stylized hiking boots that were never meant to actually hike in, long and thick silver chains, and the top model headphones, connected to what I expected would be a primo CD player or even better, MP3 player, slapped over his ears. He had a shaved and spiked hairdo, dyed a color never found in nature for good reason, which probably cost my whole yearly hair budget. And he had done all this.... to look "street." Does he know what he says is "Hello, Aren't I Hip-Hop Cool, accept me." Kvetch over. Thank you for patience, signed the Management.
Tonight's capture fragment of perception: Watch the prancing step of two bright red feet on a fat pigeon with a tuft of white atop its head like some kind of bird mohawk.
I had a relevatory thought as I manned my desk. No, Seriously. I was thinking again about why I don't write stories or essays, after totally blowing it off since I left university. That was eight months ago. I've been trying to come around to the truth that you really can't be a writer unless you actually write. Amazing as that truth may seem. Although there is some reality behind the excuse that I can't seem to write what I really want to, long as I live under the auspices of my father's money, which I've done all my life. There is a nebulous fear, usually irrational, that if anything I write, gets out, somehow it will piss my father off and he'll finally pull the proverbial rug from right underneath me. It's what I call the velvet choker. But then that shouldn't stop me, really. So this move might remove my last really good excuse. But then when I saw that.. I wondered how much more I've been holding back because of this excuse. And I had the harshest reflection I've had in a long time. "I am really funny?" I mean, if I'm holding back what I think from paper... what else am I holding back? It was an asskicker. Now, I don't know.. I'm still working on this one. So far, I think I'm still funny, but how much funnier could I be if I just finally let go. I make people laugh. I am funny. Man, independence is just getting scarier by the moment, but somehow it's an optimistic terror.
Oh, there was one more thing. I promised myself I wouldn't use this blog as a kvetch launcher.. but in this case, I must. I was riding home on the subway tonight and I saw this mid-20's white guy wearing an expensive denim outfit from Russel Simmon's Phat Farm, which was easy to tell since the damn label was sewn in the shirt in bright red embroidery. He was wearing stylized hiking boots that were never meant to actually hike in, long and thick silver chains, and the top model headphones, connected to what I expected would be a primo CD player or even better, MP3 player, slapped over his ears. He had a shaved and spiked hairdo, dyed a color never found in nature for good reason, which probably cost my whole yearly hair budget. And he had done all this.... to look "street." Does he know what he says is "Hello, Aren't I Hip-Hop Cool, accept me." Kvetch over. Thank you for patience, signed the Management.
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