Propositions for a future self
Everyone had a bucket-list of perfect jobs, the eternal well-spring of all the stuff you know you won't ever be able to be or do. Probably you've shared of few of these pipe-dream callings with people over the years, friends, teachers, family. I'll bet you your dull-as-paste 401k package that all they ever told you was, "That's not a real job," "You can't make any money that way," or just plain "No."
Well, I am tired of being told no. I am tired of people smirking at me and going, "Yeah, sure" addressing me with a sly look and air-quotes around my one true calling.
"So how's your 'writing' going?" my friend's cousin asks, complete with two-handed double-finger wagging, like I'm being a ridiculous child with illegitimate ideas of how to spend the rest of my life, like you know any goddamn thing about me. Wanna know how my writing's going? Sometimes shittily, thanks ever so for asking. It can be the most frustrating thing I ever embarked on and I often catch myself wondering why, exactly, I bother. But sometimes it's so amazing and clever and fits together so well I think my head will explode with the sheer enormity. I'm not just making up stories here, slinging nonsense to see what sticks, inventing pretty lies that I hope to cash in for a get-rich-quick-scheme and I hope you go to hell for even implying such a thing.
I am a writer. I will be published. And I know my books could go far. I know they could get read, purchased, loved as much as I love them. I can visualize it so perfectly, everyone knowing these beautiful, flawed people who exist in my mind. But not for much longer. Maybe not this year, or next year, or in the next ten, but it will happen. And won't you feel stupid then? Haha, Miss Corporate Sell-out. Who's laughing now? Oh yeah, the girl whose dream came true. Try not to asphyxiate while you gorge on your own words, jackass. Bet that craw tastes bitter.
But to get down to the real of situation, in today's economy it isn't the 9-5 workaday life that's gonna get you anywhere. It's not the diligent employee, the play-it-safe desk-jockey. All that shlock will get you is square in the middle, stuck in a rut, wheel-spinning while you wonder where all your vitality went. Oh, that's right, out the window with your good friend Empty Bottle of Jim Beam and all your self-esteem. The risk-takers, the opportunity-makers, the entrepreneurs with the balls of adamantium are the ones who get any traction, gain any ground, make any sort of dent in the world. And why not the artists? Why not us too? If we play it smart, make our money on the side and support ourselves comfortably, then who the hell can tell us we can't do what we want? That we can't hang back for the big reveal, the dramatic opening-week gala-event, first-edition-release-party? What's so wrong with that? What's so wrong with wiggling outside the box a bit? Just cuz you find yourself stuck in said box and forgot where the damn exit sign was isn't my problem.
Go cry in your pillow, Sad Fuck. I have a life to dominate.
Well, I am tired of being told no. I am tired of people smirking at me and going, "Yeah, sure" addressing me with a sly look and air-quotes around my one true calling.
"So how's your 'writing' going?" my friend's cousin asks, complete with two-handed double-finger wagging, like I'm being a ridiculous child with illegitimate ideas of how to spend the rest of my life, like you know any goddamn thing about me. Wanna know how my writing's going? Sometimes shittily, thanks ever so for asking. It can be the most frustrating thing I ever embarked on and I often catch myself wondering why, exactly, I bother. But sometimes it's so amazing and clever and fits together so well I think my head will explode with the sheer enormity. I'm not just making up stories here, slinging nonsense to see what sticks, inventing pretty lies that I hope to cash in for a get-rich-quick-scheme and I hope you go to hell for even implying such a thing.
I am a writer. I will be published. And I know my books could go far. I know they could get read, purchased, loved as much as I love them. I can visualize it so perfectly, everyone knowing these beautiful, flawed people who exist in my mind. But not for much longer. Maybe not this year, or next year, or in the next ten, but it will happen. And won't you feel stupid then? Haha, Miss Corporate Sell-out. Who's laughing now? Oh yeah, the girl whose dream came true. Try not to asphyxiate while you gorge on your own words, jackass. Bet that craw tastes bitter.
But to get down to the real of situation, in today's economy it isn't the 9-5 workaday life that's gonna get you anywhere. It's not the diligent employee, the play-it-safe desk-jockey. All that shlock will get you is square in the middle, stuck in a rut, wheel-spinning while you wonder where all your vitality went. Oh, that's right, out the window with your good friend Empty Bottle of Jim Beam and all your self-esteem. The risk-takers, the opportunity-makers, the entrepreneurs with the balls of adamantium are the ones who get any traction, gain any ground, make any sort of dent in the world. And why not the artists? Why not us too? If we play it smart, make our money on the side and support ourselves comfortably, then who the hell can tell us we can't do what we want? That we can't hang back for the big reveal, the dramatic opening-week gala-event, first-edition-release-party? What's so wrong with that? What's so wrong with wiggling outside the box a bit? Just cuz you find yourself stuck in said box and forgot where the damn exit sign was isn't my problem.
Go cry in your pillow, Sad Fuck. I have a life to dominate.
Comments
Post a Comment