Something
absolutely terrible has happened. On any given day there is a
whirlwind of thought that tears through the small American town of my
mind, lifting stilted wooden houses of ideas and dropping them in an
Oz of mish-mashed topics and genres. Intrigue Munchkins lead me down
the Yellow Brick Road to a fragile kingdom of fascination. Not
hallucinations you understand, but ham fisted metaphors that keep me
from slamming my face against the monitor, simply to stay awake. I
like to take these thoughts and ideas and fire them into the Internet
at quite an alarming speed, mostly because I have a hugely over
inflated sense of importance and worth, but also because writing
stuff is fun. Sadly, as I have already stated, something terrible has
happened. In the past few weeks I have found it increasingly
difficult to find anything to write about. I’ve had the whirlwind,
but the wooden house landed just outside Oz and the Munchkins can’t
really be fucked. Little legs.
Today:
nothing. Not struggling. Not slim pickings. Nothing. The bit of my
head that usually contains angry, emotional, funny, bitter and
opinionated arse is almost completely empty, all that’s left is the
quiet whistling sound that your nose makes when you breath in before
sighing. Followed by a sigh. I did have quite a heavy weekend, which
does account for the slowness of the cogs and the flatness of the
soul. I am very tired. But that doesn’t usually stop me finding
something to whine about, and I haven’t wound someone up and
watched them go for ages. That’s not right. So I had a ponder and
it turns out I’m incredibly bored, so bored that I’m shutting
down parts of my consciousness that allow me to process boredom, like
a psychological self lobotomy. In situations of low engagement my
brain runs at minimum, a massively useful tool when you need to look
like you’re there but want to stare out of the window or imagine
what it would be like if you could hover, but a hindrance when you
can’t turn it back up to 11.
It
seems that over use of the Brain Off Eyes Open technique causes a
reliance on it, with all higher functioning taking a back seat. At
current speed of decline I will be a full moron in under a year, a
calculation that is frightening in spite of the fact I probably did
it wrong. I can either accept my fate, buy some jogging bottoms, Ugg
boots and frost my tips, or I can start to fight back. Ordinarily I
would flee from battle but I only have to fight my own brain, and I
happen to have insider information that suggests my opponent is
gullible, shallow and weak as. Firstly, I have purchased some books –
actual books, on actual paper – and I’m going to read them. I
know, but drastic times and all that. Reading a different voice
provides a fresh vocabulary, engages the mind and fires the
imagination, so it seems a good starting point. Also, depending on
the literature, reading makes you look clever, and if you look
clever, you feel clever and if you feel clever, you look smug. Or
something. I shall be consuming, with my eyes, a selection of books
by Hunter S. Thompson, of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas fame,
because I find him to be an interesting chap who is saying something
worth listening to.
I’m
also going to start dropping inflammatory statements into
conversation, just to see what happens. This may involve taking
wildly uninformed stances on any given topic and declaring all
opposers to be mentally sub normal. That’ll be fun, and it’ll
keep my mind active and entertained, I may even try out some of the
more potentially offensive bits from some new stand up material I’ve
got. I’m going to do some different things, I’m not entirely sure
what yet but by golly, they’re gonna be different and I’m gonna
do them. Less computer gaming and television, more writing, talking,
singing and creating. Kick start the old grey cells. The key, I
think, is to put less effort into the mundane, the constant and the
expected and more into individual passions, opinion and desire. This
is made tricky by the mundane and expected being what provides money
with which to remain alive. Remaining alive is crucial.
With
a bit of tinkering I think I’ll be back to my normal argumentative,
intrigued, over analysing self in no time, which is of great comfort
to you I’m sure. Paid employment is a wonderful thing but only if
it’s allowing you to do something that matters when you’re not
there, and it only has to be something that matters to you.
Volunteering at the local hospice in your spare time is bloody nice
of you and probably very rewarding, but if you want to spend your
evenings carving the faces of celebrities into individual grains of
rice, then you go for it. I know which I’d rather be doing, but
then I’m a bastard. At the risk of sounding a bit of a cock, all
that’s important is that you keep doing the thing you love doing,
the thing you know probably won’t ever make your fortune or fame,
but the thing that makes you you. God, I feel a bit sick now. For the
sake of balance I feel I should say that I’m still not fond of most
of you and that it’s mostly your fault I’m like this right now.
Tiresome.
So,
anyone who knows me: apologies. Apologies for being a bit of a bore
of late, and apologies for being a bit of a selfish, mischievous git
in the coming days and weeks. You’ve put up with me this long, so I
figure any damage I do will be minimal and soon forgotten, better
that than go full Idiot. Those who don’t know me get no sorry, I
will come and go and whatever I do will pass. I may appeal on
whatever level and that would be marvellous, but if it’s not for
you just keep quiet and wait for it to leave. There are billions of
us and you shouldn’t waste time on the ones you don’t get, I
certainly don’t.
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