the midnight post

It’s always around this time when I get the itch to write something insightful, meaningful…or life changing. I want it to be the kind of writing that a reader soaks in instantly, and connects with me.   Something life changing would happen when they would read it. They might laugh in agreement, or cry out of frustration. It could change the life of this hypothetical reader; she or he might might get enlightened in the process. Maybe?

Get real loser! (<– Self inflicted insult #1)

Then I think, you are so narcissistic! (<–Self inflicted insult #2) And I let it go. I let it go, and dive into some random routine that leads me to an all night internet binge, which in the process, burns my face because of computer screen radiation.   I’m sure I need glasses now. My skin looks like leather. And I am almost positive that the internet gods have punished me by letting people subscribe to my facebook. Random people, that is. Like my mother.

The itch to write is strong at first. I might write a short horror story, but halfway through life takes over with emails and scheduling. I end up planning for the next day in color coordinated pens. Each color represents the urgency in a task. Red is very important. Blue is take a chill pill (when you get to it). Green is potential money option. Yellow is, Oops! I didn’t write you into my calendar (<–Lying to myself, so that I won’t feel guilty for not hanging). I mean–even the concept of hanging out has become a task in my life. That’s just not right.

I wish I could be like those mysterious writers out there who have all the answers, you know? The ones who sit in front of their computer screens for hours being brilliant.    Someday.      Something to aspire to be, I suppose. That insider club must be nice.  I mean, I wouldn’t even mind being one of those mystical writers out there, who are in tuned with astrology and shit. They can help you figure out the perfect mantra for your self esteem issues. The ones who write on a daily basis. Yeah, I wouldn’t mind that.

Alas, I am as lost as the next chap, gal, chica, or chavo.

Still, that’s the kind of writer I sometimes pretend to be. The writer that has all the answers. The writer that can solve the problems. Etc. etc. etc. Fantasies, fairies and fart. All ephemeral!

I mean, really, what  do we know? As people? As writers, bloggers, or stalkers who listen into your conversations.

If anything, I think writers are kind of creepy. (<–Self inflicting insult #3) Us writers, we eavesdrop, write notes about how you wear your clothes, how you move your hands when you talk, try and wonder if you were born a mouth breather or if that is just a way you show interest. This is how some writers develop characters. They look at you. They stare when you are not noticing, and they wonder if you are single. If you are still a virgin. If you’ve ever killed anyone. If you’re wearing underwear. Etc. etc. etc.

I’ve been lead to believe that technically, in the “real world,” I can’t claim to be a writer unless I’ve been accepted into some type of “official” publication. However, I sense that if I don’t consider myself a writer from the get go, then what is the point? Therefore, I am going to claim to be a writer. It’s a hobby, a passion, and obsession — so why not? To the rest of the world, I am an aspiring writer. And you know what, I’ll take that too.

But enough rants. I am going to get to my point. The point of this midnight post is, that I have to keep writing. I just do. I figure, this is a good space to do it in.

Even if do end up doodling on my calendar, or making coffee to catch (what I like to call) “the Netflix random pick of the night.” I am going to make an attempt to write in this blog at least once a week.

I will confess:   I am a procrastinator.

I am also petrified of someone reading what I write. I am sure many can relate. Yet, this is my attempt to be mature. To practice expression in the written form, and in a public forum. To be  vulnerable (gross). I’m not going to lie, I’m a little scared about the process.

I just want to be able to express myself without caring what anyone thinks. I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s time to do what I love to do. Write. Clear and simple — like the imaginary pen stroking on my screen, fluid.

I will begin this blog with this sincere apology, that most of what I will write might have absolutely nothing to do with your dreams and aspirations. I may not be able to fix your self esteem issues, your inability to maintain a coherent and proper conversation, or help your life ease on through. And to be frank, I don’t want to. There’s a reason why life is tough. This is how one becomes interesting. Don’t you want to be interesting? And who you are might be the next character for my book. So keep your flaws, please. I might be sitting next to you in cafe listening into your conversations. I can’t stand people who are normal. Please stay interesting and weird.

On a final note, if you do find yourself in a public area with a bunch of writers on their little MacBooks tic tacking away (probably waiting to be fed creatively), be a pal and give them some information. Send some weirdness their way. We really do want to know if you are wearing underwear. Make sure to mention the color.

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