When I write, which is conveniently what I am doing right now, I don’t feel so sad. I will be honest in saying that there are still a few occasional times when even writing can not pull me out of a depressed slump. But when I am writing – and I mean really writing, like typing letters that form words that somehow, and I have no idea how, but somehow by the grace of the Gods turn into sentences and paragraphs, and not the writing I usually do where I type a word out (usually short and misspelled) and then stare at the screen for five minutes before I decide to masturbate to internet porn for two and a half hours lying to myself that afterwards I’ll somehow be inspired to write – I am usually having the happiest point of my, albeit pathetic, day. I don’t know how, but somehow writing distracts me from all those things that I usually think about throughout the day and bring me down (such as death and dying, loneliness, being a loser, Dane Cook’s humor and the people who like him, and how the human race is most assuredly screwed). Writing keeps me happy the way hanging out with my friends does. The way playing sports does. The way it makes me happy when a cute girl smiles at me; even though she’s really smiling at the more attractive guy behind me, but I’ll never figure it out. I love writing. If I could I would marry writing. But I guess we’ll tackle that legal debacle after we get gay marriage legalized.
I admit that I am not a good writer. In fact I will argue to exhaustion that I am a pretty terrible writer. Me grammar is far from appropriate. My Spelling is atroocius (you’ve used that joke more than once). I apparently use the same jokes often. I write using some weird second personality in parentheses that I’ve never really explain (explanation is futile). And worst of all my writing is pointless and lacks much needed passion. Without passion how can I ever expect to be as good as Austen, or Hemmingway, or Tolstoy, or Dr. Seuss – to quote Homer Simpson, “It was so sad the way they hopped on Pop.”
Well the fact of the matter, assuming there is a matter, is that I don’t ever plan to be as good as the aforementioned authors, or anywhere near that good. It would be nice if I lived in a self delusion that I was a great writer, or that I might one day become a great writer, but I don’t. I’ve pretty much abandoned the idea that I’ll ever be a good writer, or that I’ll ever write something meaningful. However, perhaps out of stupidity, my motivation for writing is not to be good at it, or to become famous, or to try and makes lots and lots of money that I could use to purchase high-end prostitutes (I don’t know why you made that so specific). My motivation for writing is that I thoroughly enjoy it because while writing it takes my mind to some special place I didn’t know existed. It takes my mind off all that crap that bogs me down and keeps me from enjoying this beautiful fucking life. This beautiful life that, although enjoys to shit on me, has gifted me with the ability to write. Granted it’s not the ability to write well, but I say balderdash! I don’t need to write to make money. I don’t need to write to make a difference in this world (although it’d be nice). I don’t need to write to get famous. I don’t need to write so people will know my thoughts (well now the question arises of why you’re even bothering to post this here then?) and that’s a good question that will go unanswered. I need to write because it consistently makes me happy. And I haven’t been able to find too many things in this life that consistently make me happy.
People say religion makes them happy. Well writing makes me happy so I guess it’s my religion. And I am the God of this religion, which makes this a pretty lame and pathetic religion.