If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a blank white page. No, I’m not incensed by the racial makeup of the Congressional internship program. I have writer’s block. Saying you have writer’s block, of course, is an arrogant way of assuring others that you are a writer, without any of the responsibility of actual demonstration of that ability. Maybe I am just not a very interesting person. Maybe I should just shut the hell up, and play some video games. That would show me.
But no, I’m not staying in like that. (I should probably footnote that, and refer people to widely used term ‘going out like that’. Wait, how do footnotes work again? Nevermind.) Instead, I am going to force myself to commit to electrons a few hundred words of my wisdom, whether I have a subject or not. Maybe I should title this my Seinfeld post, because honestly, if you’re expecting a point somewhere in this rambling meek explosion of self-aggrandization, then you can just look elsewhere. By the way, what do you call a segment in a poem that serves no other purpose than to pad out the poem and separate two stronger parts of the poem? That would be a George CoSTANZA. That’s right, a poetry joke that slams Jason Alexander, right out of left field. Problem with that?
So, if not a point, then perhaps a sentiment. I disappoint me. Seriously, if you saw the plans and schemes I come up with at 2am, you’d think I was illegitimate cyborg baby of Steve Jobs and Nicole Kidman’s character in Moulin Rouge. I scheme; therefore I plan. Somehow, though, by 6am when I curse my rude awakening to the banjo stylings of Steve Martin (yep, every morning, weird, huh?), I deem these master schemes to be just wild fancy, devoid of real potential. Who am I to say that, though? What right does 6am me have to continuously crush the dreams of 2am me? Fuck you, 6am me! I live in Europe, damn it. I can incorporate in Texas before you even wake up!
I’ll probably wait until after Christmas, but you just watch. One of these days, I’ll wake up and discover Articles of Incorporation, by-laws and a charter downloaded on my desktop all neat and tidy, like a Christmas dinner at an OCD Support Group. I’ll show that 6am motherfucker who’s the boss! Ah shit, that looks suspiciously like a point I’ve made. RUN AWAY!!!
If your 2am self would like to fuck with your 6am self, I highly recommend this song for your alarm.
Late for School <amazon buy link>