Tuesday, September 23, 2014

I

I never write the title first. You'd think I'd remember that. Still, I try it. It's like the goddamn toaster oven all over again. Never use the glove because this time I'll do it and not burn the shit out of my hand and have to eat toast that tastes like burnt hair. Now, where was I? I got myself all twisted with a title for something that didn't exist yet, and now I feel it like warm hands around my neck.

I think people think I'm lazy. I realized that today. I get it. If they could read minds they'd know there ain't nothing lazy about it. Shit's like a Rotary Club meeting where a disgruntled waiter dosed everyones' grey coffee. I'm gonna buy a blue blazer with gold buttons and sit in the corner scrabbling at my cuticles and singing Jethro Tull in my head. Come on, I'm the Whistler! I have a fife. And a drum to play!

I think I think about what other people think about me too much. I think I think about what I think about myself too much. I think too much, period. I think too much about thinking too much. Where's that fucking waiter? Maybe he has some Benzos.

I met a woman recently who told me I have nice forearms. It was weird. It was weirder than if she'd told me that my shoes were really antennas that transmit my thoughts to the magic fire people who live inside the earth. I told her I type a lot. She looked at me like I was crazy. Ain't it grand.

I'm trying this first person thing because my friend got me thinking on it. He looks EXACTLY like Jimi Hendrix, by the way. Fucking unreal. Facebook wouldn't lie.

I used to write in the first person a lot. Now, it's second for short, third for long. Most of the time. And now I feel like a football announcer, only I'm not trying to make excuses for degenerate fucking assholes or trying to be the sensitive, understanding guy who wants to land a contract with ESPN.

I don't like talking about me. Not in a way that you can see. Not that I write about me anyway. I write about shadings and slight of hand tricks. I take perception and turn it into deception, courting true lies. I'd like to say I do it for profit, but I'm sure not profiting. I don't know why I do it. I write a damn good guilt trip though. Want to take one?

I like it when my brain shuts the fuck up for a little while. That's what happens when I write. Make sense? Nope. Doesn't make sense to me either.

10 comments:

  1. I have shoes like that! the antennas come in quite handy. I've adapted them to receive digital television signals. Now, when I'm walking, I can commune with all those reality TV based folks. I also have a tinfoil hat.

    First person suits you well, my friend... play with it... but remember that the story you are telling isn't told by you, but by that character who would have been two-dimensional in third-person. Now you get to speak for him and tell him what's in his heart... errr, your heart, as you are him, while you are him.

    Don't diss the shoes. And nice forearms rock.

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    Replies
    1. lol. I don't even EXIST brother. If you even knew the machinations. ;)

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    2. Non-existential philosophy... fascinating...

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  2. OMG, I feel like I just took an acid trip...and I LIKED IT!!!! You have no idea how much I needed to read this today. It's been one for the crapper and I needed to smile – and NOT think. :)

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  3. 'I'm really liking this', says the guy with the afro and the guitar!

    Hey, do you think my forearms make my ass look big?

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    Replies
    1. Thanks. And I think your ass makes your forearms look big. ;)

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