Me

            First off, I’m surprised. People appear to be reading this crap. I don’t know why. Of course, that could be one of my short comings, or one of my blind spots. Doesn’t matter. For those reading, Hello! Welcome to the opposite of happy. I’m not sure why you’re reading this or what you hope to gain, because this is just me doing… well, I don’t know what. I don’t know why I’m still writing it other than, I just feel this weird need to write it. So, here we go with tonight’s random thoughts.

            Me. I know, a boring subject to say the least, but the problem is, I don’t know who that is anymore. I’ve been trying to figure it out more and more, and I seem to fall further and further behind whenever I do. I don’t know who I am anymore. I mean, I used to know. I used to know who I was, what I was passionate about, where I was going. It made sense at some point. Now, though, I’m not sure. I still like doing a lot of the same things I used to do, and I still seem to want to pursue some of those things, but I think I’m just becoming a cynical old bastard. Bit by bit the world is helping to tear me down further while I’m trying to get out of the hole I’m already in.

            Writing. As you can see, or maybe you can’t, its sort of a passion of mine. I’ve honestly been trying to write a novel since the time I was about fifteen. Its all I’ve ever wanted to do. Oh, sure, there have been other things, like drawing, but I love to write and I’m a better writer than artist any day of the week. Writing, talking, words, I love them, I am good with them, and so I do things like this. I’m sure any grammar teacher is in tears reading this, but I’m not going for grammar, so I apologize to those I am hurting with what must be exceedingly poor grammar. Have I said grammar enough?

            Anyway, I still write, but the flame has sort of died down on that. Part of it is because I don’t think I’m good enough. I’m my biggest enemy here. I hate anything I write. It’s never good enough. I’ve read a number of books (pause for my friends to mock my reading as they have read great quantities more than me) and my stories never seem right. They never seem as good as the books I love so very much. So, that’s the first problem. I hate my own writing because I hate myself, and that rather hinders my ability.

            Another reason is because I don’t think it will get published. This is going to be weird, because, as much as I hate my writing, I know that my story, characters, and ideas are solid. They are interesting. They are something people will want to read. Whether or not I’m capable of creating the books properly remains to be seen, but if, through some miracle I do finish a book (and, for reasons I don’t understand, I am still trying on more than one front), who would publish it? Maybe I’m wrong. Probably I’m wrong. My stuff is crap. Let’s say it’s not crap, for the sake of argument, and instead say that someone DOES agree to publish me. Then I won’t give up my rights. I do not want some publishing company to tell some studio executive that they can take my characters and ideas and make some crap movie or TV show (for examples I give you The Last Airbender, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Transformers 2 and 3, and the Dresden Files). Whatever my personal feelings for my writing, these are my creations. These are MY dreams, no one else’s, and I do not want to see them destroyed or warped so badly as to be something not even close to my idea. I have to keep my rights, or I won’t even let someone publish my stuff.

            Those two aside, the biggest reason I don’t want to publish anything is because, I don’t think it will matter. I could write the greatest new fantasy since Harry Potter, somehow, and it won’t mean a God damned thing because Snooki, a stupid, talentless slut from New Jersey who has spent more time drunk thank the Kennedy family (a rare feat), has a NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLING BOOK.

            As the meme says, “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore.”

           But that’s only a small part of me. I think. I guess? I don’t know. I used to like all these different things. Video games, friends, books, writing, drawing, movies. Now, I don’t know. Its like, nothing is the same. Movies are dumb. I can’t stand to watch TV for all the blasted commercials, and the shows I like are few and far between. Writing, I’ve griped about, drawing… I’m really a hack. I’m so out of practice I can barely draw my comics and that used to be easy. Maybe I should practice more, get back into it, but it just… it’s lost something. It’s not the same anymore.

            Everything’s that way.

            I’d go hang out with my friends, but they’re different too, and that’s good. They’ve got real lives, but… I just don’t feel like I belong there anymore. They’re all successful, in their own houses, getting on with their own lives. I’m still here, barely making ends meet, fat and stupid as ever. No one wants to role play anymore. I can’t blame them. We’ve grown up. What kind of grown ups do that? Right? But that’s kind of all I have, in some ways… my stories. I’ve focused on them for so long, worked on them so hard, that I don’t have any other skills. I always assumed I’d make it big as an author. I have solid stories. I know how to write. How hard could it be?

            So where does that leave me?

            I don’t know.

            Do I go back to school? Do I still like anything? Am I so far gone, so deep in depression that nothing brings me joy anymore? Am I Stan from South Park? Is everything just shit to me? Am I a cynical bastard?

            I don’t know.

            What I know is that everyday I feel just al little more lost. Everyday I feel a little more hopeless. I don’t see anything. I don’t see anything to look forward to. I don’t get excited. I see endless days of me trying desperately to hold on to a job and just hoping to make it pay check to pay check, to just keep the house running, until finally, one day, its all over. Just this endless tunnel of work, home, work home, work home. There are no bright spots. I no longer have any hope that I’ll get published. I don’t want to go back to school, cause that means leaving the house, and what would I do anyway? I’m 34. I don’t like the younger generation a great deal to begin with. I certainly don’t want to have to go to school with them.

            I have this big, empty hole, with memories of what I used to be, and I used to like myself, but now I can’t stand the person I see in the mirror and all I want, all I really want is to go to sleep. I just want to sleep. Its quiet there. The dreams are even nice sometimes. When I’m asleep, my brain stops. No worries. No fears. No hate. No rage. No emptiness.

            I just want to sleep, and never wake up.

            That’s what I know about me.