Monday, January 9, 2012
A Blog About Nothing
God. There is nothing, as some of you know, that can put the fear of God into a person more than a blank piece of paper. These days for most of us that blank piece of paper has been replaced by the blank screen and the blinking cursor which, for some reason, is even more daunting. A blank piece of paper can be filled; it is finite. It has an end. If you fill up the entire front and entire back, that's all there is. And once you have filled that page, you have defeated it, defeated that small suddenly insignificant piece of used-to-be-tree. But on the computer screen, the word program is infinite. I suppose you could write a word document so enormously large that it would literally take up all of the space on your hard drive, but that is a bit unrealistic. Even if you just put a paperweight on the keyboard, it would be ages before you filled up a word document. And THAT is what is so scary. You cannot beat the page. You can only fill it and then, right there waiting for you is another bright, clean, empty screen. Taunting you, mocking you, daring you to come at it with everything you have. And if and when you do? There's another page. Like a Hydra, endlessly attacking you with space to be filled.
I have forgotten how to type. Not that I ever really was a good typist. Not even mediocre. I am using my two index fingers to type this, and am looking at the keyboard. I have typed this way since the first time I really had access to a computer, when I was 17 years old and a freshman at Penn State. That was 16 years ago, and I still type as well now as I did then. Skills plateau, I guess. I type fairly fast, but since I am looking at the keyboard I have no idea what I am typing, or if anything I am typing is being spelled correctly. Spell-check is my friend. It is a wonder anyone can spell anymore.
Typing is an issue, but writing had never been. I have always been a writer. Since the first time I started reading when I was 4 or 5 or whatever, I wanted to write. My mind was full of ideas, good ideas, great ideas I thought, and I thought that they should all be written. I would write, and people would read what I wrote and tell me that it was good, that I was talented. But I didn't believe them. I thought, rather oddly, that they had just never really read anything good, so what I wrote must have seemed great to them. It wasn't that I did not, or do not, believe that what I had written was good, I just... I'm not sure actually. I had the same problem with women actually. When I read things that I wrote years ago, things that I forgot that I had written, I always think “that was pretty damned good. I'm a great writer.” I have always been my biggest fan.
Women have loved me, and I have never, ever understood why. I have good traits to be sure, but enough to be loved? I never could logically figure out how a woman could fall IN LOVE with me. I'm a great guy and fun to be around, but love requires more I should think. I know each and every reason why I have been in love with the women I have been in love with. Some of those reasons were sick, twisted, and wrong, but at least I knew it. For some reason, I am incredibly and indelibly enamored with women who lacked, shall we say, sanity. Thankfully I only actually dated one such woman, but I often found myself chasing the craziest bitches you could imagine. Sluts, whores, bipolar-borderline personality types, cutters, criers, moody semi-psychotic females all had my constant attention. It did not help that the crazy girls where often the hottest ones. I think there is something about being beautiful that makes you crazy. And, as many people have observed, being crazy usually makes people pretty damned creative, or at the very least fun to be around at parties. Being Hot makes one fun to be around at parties as well, but it does not necessarily make one creative. Now if a girl was creative, sexy, and crazy? I was hopeless. If I were to be completely honest with myself, I am still hopeless. The only thing that stops me from still chasing crazy bitches like dogs going after cars is that I have the scars to remind me what happens when I catch them. Basically any time I got too close to a woman, well the effects were very similar to what happens when a dog catches the car; the car is fine but the dog ends up mangled. And boy have I been mangled.
Which is not to say that I am perfectly well myself. I am in fact crazy as well. The specifics of which are not important, but yeah I am crazy too. I think it is why I like crazy women, like really does attract like. Well, at least they attract me; I only attract them so much as they really like to be my friend. Which I suppose is fine, unless one really wants to have sex with someone who does not sleep with their friends. Then it is nothing but frustration. Sexual frustration is one of the worst types of frustration, other than vocational frustration. Sexual frustration is the hardest to truly satisfy because its satiation depends entirely on someone else. Some of us are much better at convincing others to have sex with us than I am. I am still, even at the age of 34, shocked when a girl agrees to have sex with me. I guess it's a great feeling. As a psychologist, I usually know what someone is going to do or say in any general situation, but I never, ever can figure out when a woman likes me until her hand is on my dick. Then I have a clue. One of my favorite moments in life is the very first time a woman spreads her legs for me. It is such a rapturously joyous occasion, I wish that Hallmark made cards to thank women for letting me see their vagina. It really is that great. Straight women and gay men are missing out. It's a little like... a little like when you're playing a video game, and you meet the one Boss character that whips your ass day in and day out for a week straight. Then finally, one fateful day, you figure out the proper strategy and you win the stage. Triumphant music plays; experience points are gained; gold is earned, and all is right with the world. Until you start the next stage that is.
I often wonder what it is like to feel sexy. I have no idea. This is no remnant of low self esteem that has stuck with me from my childhood, I honestly have never known what sexy is. I have felt confident, funny, powerful, in control, in charge, scary, neglectful, morose, intimidating, frightening, rageful... but never sexy. I mean, I think I know what sexy looks like, or at the very least I know what women generally find sexy and it never, ever looks like me. I know a lot of people find the Tyrese types sexy, and though I can match the skin-tone I am a far cry from the physique. Women think Ryan Gosling/Reynolds is sexy, but I'll never be able to be that white, at least not physically. People think David Tennent is sexy, but I will never, ever be that thin without losing some of my skeleton. Also, my hair will never do what his does, which is why I cry myself to sleep every night. I know that a couple of my girlfriends found me incredibly sexy, but it was through no fault of my own. I think that's what is most bothersome about the notion of sexiness for me, it's not a tangible thing I can work on and improve. It's easier for women, men are simple creatures. Find something good about your body and personality and accentuate it. My body and personality are constantly in flux, so what do I nail down and say it is exactly sexy? What do you do? What does anyone do? Sexiness, people tell me, is like being cool. The less you think about it the more you exemplify it. Is that true? Could it possibly be true?
I'm drinking. Not how you think though, it is a glass of V8 Splash, some kind of berry flavor. There is a shot of rum in it, but only one. I'm showing restraint. The words are flowing more freely now, more freely than they have in a while, but I am sure it has nothing to do with the sugar and food coloring and fermented whatever that constitutes rum. It is, more likely, because I can't think straight. ADD is wonderful for the creative process because it makes it impossible to not see an issue from every angle. Sometimes I think my greatest gift is being able to see a problem from many different points of view, a trait that people call empathy. I am quite empathetic. Too much so. In thinking of other peoples feelings I often neglect my own, and when I neglect my own feelings, they slink off into a corner and begin plotting malevolent selfish plans on their own. After that my subconscious convinces my waking mind to do something unspeakable under the pretense of helping, or sparing someones feeling. I really do understand all those sayings about doing evil in the name of good, sayings which often take the form of “the road to hell is paved with good intentions”, or some variation thereof. Considering the heathenish things I do fully aware of the ramifications, and the bad things I do in the name of good intentions, I am doubly destined for Hell, if there is such a thing. I gave up on being religious long ago. I knew myself, and I knew I would never live up to any religions standards of goodness.
So here we are, some of the pages of space and time filled up with thought. If you have read this far and are wondering “what is the point of all this”, I regret to inform you that there is no point. No, wait, there is; the point was to see if I could still write, if I was still capable of forming coherent thoughts and sentences and putting together something people would read. I have written down every thought that I had in the last two hours, and you, for some reason, read it. I find myself as curious about why you would read this as I am curious about why I wrote it. I am writing this to myself, and hope that when I read it it offers a little glimpse into the mind of the writer, and offers some understanding where before there was none.