An introduction to the man behind the blog, or: god forbid i ever make this an "about me" on a social networking site. PART 1 →

Well fuck but ain’t life just grand?  It’s almost noon, which means I’ve been awake twelve hours now, and I’m drunk, to boot.  I was taking a shit earlier and realized(1) that I haven’t written anything since maybe january (or was it earlier?(2)) excepting, of course some half-assed, bitter, drunken(3) missive(4), hastily assembled(5) and sent as a facebook message to my ex-girlfriend(6), who, if y’all’ll allow me to digress momentarily, is a tawdry harlot cunt-fucking-shitbag whore who left me the day after our second anniversary for my best friend(7), who I was to later find had been actively pursuing, seducing, and finally fucking said tawdry harlot cunt-fucking-shitbag whore girlfriend for a year; and who is - the ex - more than a year later still the cause of more than a few hangups, interpersonal relationship-wise, and, despite all logical, rational reasons for me to feel otherwise is still the object of my affections, devotion, love, blah blah blah(8).

And but so anyways how the hell do I call myself a writer when I let a half-year elapse without so much as goddamn jot or tittle of ink committed to paper; without the click-clack of keys at a terminal(9)?  Of course, it’s not been a lack of ideas behind my inactivity, I posses if anything a surfeit of them(10).  Nor do I feel that my (admittedly rampant) regimen of drug and alcohol use significantly contributed to this period of inactivity in letters(11), seeing as how all my writing is done while drunk, about things that happened while drunk(12).  And I certainly don’t think simple laziness played a large part, though it certainly has its part to play in all of my underachieving.  In fact, I can’t really pinpoint why I haven’t done more writing, because writing is my, if not primary, then certainly most efficient(13) means of self-analysis; the method by which I distill my variegated whims, thoughts, fantasies, observations, critiques, etc. into cogent, comprehensible narratives easily examined to provide maximum insight into my psyche.  All of this is, of course, to say that I have no clue what to write about, except that I know I need to write something.  I’ve got eight 8.5”x11” pages to fill, and come Hell Itself or high water, I ain’t gonna allow myself to stop ‘till they’re done(14).  Sleep’s for the weak anyways.  I suppose lets get some bullshit scene-setting and general info outta the way so I can get back to doing what I do best:  self-deprecating, misogynistic, misanthropic complaints about women and my failures with them.  So, let’s dive in, shall we?

**********************************************
Notes and Errata

1.  Opined, pondered, lamented?
2.  Now that I’m here at the computer I can see it was January 27th.
3.  But do I ever write sober?  Perish the thought!  I mean but goddamn how often am I sober, anyways?
4.  Screed?   I like that word!
5.  Again, aren’t they all?
6.  Which reads as follows(all spelling, punctuation, capitalization, and formatting errors kept as in original):
i de-friended you on facebook last night, after we finished talking. it felt good. then. now, i regret it. i miss you. i miss talking to you. i miss my best friend. i miss being happy.


i fucking hate that when i get all depressed like this that you’re still the first person i think of calling up to talk to. i fucking despise you, and yet you are probably the only person i feel comfortable talking to about my emotions. and, baby, there are a lot of emotions in my fucked up little head right now. i want to know your secret. how did you turn off your feelings for me so qucikly? i’ve heard it said that getting over a relationship takes about half as long as it lasted. well, we’re only a few days away from that and here i am right back where i started. i want to die. instead, i’m sure i’ll get right back to drowning my sorrows and refusing to actually deal with it, with myself. the haze that was this year was still the most miserable year of my life (most likely because i didn’t deal with any of it, just crawled deeper into the whiskey bottle). and you, you managed to go from telling me you loved me to becoming engaged to him in like ten days. or less. fuck you, how’d you pull it off?


i was on myspace today, and i was looking at all the old mail i have, and the first message you sent me was on there. we never exchanged numbers, i guess, and you found me through poobert’s myspace. then, of course i got sucked in to reading them all, like a fucking moron. i cried when i read what you sent me from italy. of course that just got me running in a whole string of solipsism.

7.  At the time
8.  Sorry ‘bout that.  Had to get it out there, ya’know?
9.  Oh yeah, so I guess I did write some stuff besides the pathetic “I still love you” letter, to wit:  a two page paper on the art installation Spiral Jetty, 8+ pages on the Olmec’s colossal head sculptures at Teōtīhuacān - both hired gigs for a friend who is in school for art history or some such nonsense - and, something in the area of two handwritten pages about RVA for a friend’s as-yet-unpublished zine about life in Richmond

10.  Which i will try to list now off the top of my head:

• Why I Drink
• Why RVAMag is horrible
• The Saddle Sore’s “Mathlete’s Revenge” alleycat race is neither decadent nor depraved
• Cycleslaughterama 2010:  Did the “Bros” finally win?
• All Hail Four Loko!:  an ode to alcopop

and also some show reviews and of course ideas, character studies, plotlines, etc. for my fictionalized autobiographical novel (and godfuckingdamnit but I hate being part of that aspiring-writer “blah blah blah my novel blah blah blah” cliché), tentatively titled Clayton’s Despair.
11.  I mean, I probably haven’t been sober much more than a month or so, cumulatively, in the past 5 years!

12.  See note 3, and also the title of this blog
13.  And I don’t think “efficient” is quite the right word for it, but I mean, I’ve let myself get out of practice; for God’s sake I’ve been using double contractions like “y’all’ll”, and questioning whether I mean “who” or “whom”, “its” or “it’s” - things I know when I write regularly!
14.  I was writing this by hand.  And while neither hell nor high water came, hand cramps did.  I got about half of the pages filled.  Oh well.

1 year ago  /  1 note