Getting Poetic

Maybe the yawn induced lack of resent has its reasons. Maybe, like, if the word like, like, weren't so like, like, liking likes would be easier. Maybe if words met at some point, the lonely speaker would incite a reason. But it doesn't, it rarely did. Maybe if early truths had been acknowledged this sick shit wouldn't drag. Maybe if I could say shit without feeling bad. Maybe if lacrimation weren't so obnoxiously poetic, so dauntingly over done over details that were supposedly upsetting. Maybe if Kanye had talent to display, or if he felt human in any single fucking way. Maybe if nice were just nice and not weak. Maybe if talents weren't overshadowed. Maybe if passion were stronger than cheap realizations, or if getting poetic didn't feel like building entire civilizations. Maybe the mistakes were fate.

Maybe I made a mistake.

Passion

I hate writing the word fuck. I could say it all day every day, in every paragraph and even multiple times per sentence if I had to, but writing it just feels so wrong and dirty. Fuck is just such a raw word, it's carried almost entirely by the emotion put behind it. It's the word that comes out when you're not even thinking of words anymore. When you stub your toe you yell "fuck," when you absolutely despise someone you don't wish them a very slow Chinese water torture, you tell them to go fuck themselves, and when you listen to that perfect song for the first time in 15 years, it's only most likely you'll let out a long sigh of melancholic "fuuuck."

Sometimes there's no word to substitute it. Which is why yesterday, as I finished writing my first ever screenplay, I mentioned to nobody but myself how much I fucking love writing. I'm not even that great. I'm not that bad, but I could be better. I won't be winning an award. I left imperfections because they felt organic. All I can think of after this point is how much I fucking love writing. Not passionately love, it's so much more. Not even blindly, madly, deeply, as cliche and near perfect as it would be. Fucking love is the only way it feels right to say it. Maybe because the wound it's left me is still so fresh. Maybe it's because I just saw a peak of my imaginative side without restrictions. No longer thinking I need visual aid, or to satisfy someone, or to impress anybody. I felt a whole world come to life through my fingertips for the first time, and it was like a lifetime's work of writing about all the passion artists put into music in one tiny little digital report. I won't stop doing that, I can't. I've already felt what a lifetime's work of it feels like. Even if it remains a hobby for the rest of my life, stopping would be a dagger to my fucking heart. But I feel the ceaseless need to write more. To write for me, and for others who see things like I do. Maybe not always screenplays, but fuck, I am definitely doing that again.

Maybe I'll try one of these book writing challenges. Maybe I'll poke around and find an artist to write a webcomic with me. I have to try as many mediums as possible to see which one feels like the most lifetimes of amazing work, so I can live my life a million times over through passion.

I get it. Money is important.

I'm pissed. I am fully aware everyone's entitled to their own opinion, that's great and all, but so many people have such fucking terrible ideas coursing through their grey matter that I have to wonder what honestly drives them. The case I was presented with earlier was a simple one, that someone who was involved in a business for longer should retire so that younger newcomers could keep their job. Anyone having to lose their job for any reason other than doing a bad one upsets me, but that's not what grinds my motherfucking gears.

What really truly pisses me off are comments like: "He would've kept his job if this old 60 year old would retire. Fucking greedy people." "He Should retire by then."

Or just go burn somewhere in a corner

Now using my admittedly limited psychological knowledge on the reason people would think this, I think of the American dream. The dream being to make money during your youth, then grow old and use money you've put away to survive and enjoy life. It's similar thinking that states as soon as you finish high school, before you've mentally matured, you should pick a major and study your ass off for something that you might hate but will definitely make you money. This means that in today's case, this fucking epic man of a 60 year old was perfectly capable of living the American dream. He's getting negative attention because that's not his dream. What's so wrong with doing what you love until you can? Until this "old" man has arthritis on his fingers, until his legs give out, until he is actually handicapped. Why should anybody stop him from waking up in the morning and doing something he loves? What fucked up mentality does it take to think that age as a number is enough of a reason to give up your passion and make way for the youth which, in my very personal experience just aren't as good at labor as before.

We didn't need to label food as organic before because we had hard working farmers. Doctors would check your tongue, your eyes, and personally hear your heart before prescribing you anything. Cars were built to last. I see cars from the '70s every once in a while. You think you'll be seeing a 2008 Corolla in 2044?

I get it. Money is important. I see why people prioritize it over what they love. I see how people can find any excuse necessary and pin their hard times on that. I just think there's better ways to cope, especially ways that don't have to piss me right the fuck off.

I won a box of diabetes

November 27, 2014, I received Mel's package in the mail which contained a bag of Christmas chocolates, a box of Zingers, and a box of Twinkies. The chocolates would have been the death of me if I were that allergic to nuts. Instead, the melted peanut butter pooplets were devoured. This was the start, I won a box of diabetes.

Actual photograph of a "Christmas tree shaped Reese's Cup"

Scared of the potential addiction the Hostess boxes would bring, I waited. It wasn't until December 10th that I started writing this terribly boring journal entry style blog post about my carefully eating the Zingers one by one, because surely those were meant to give the most diabetes at once. The truth is I didn't like the Zingers, and they seemed pretty much like glorified Twinkies. They have what looks and feels like shredded coconut all around them, but it doesn't really taste like coconut. They have "raspberry icing" that tastes like whipped sugar with a tinge of menstrual blood for color, and then you chew it and it's like eating a sponge with whipped cream in the middle. Sorry, Mel. I wasn't impressed.

Dead set on eating the whole box on my own, a bit over a month passed by. I never even opened the Twinkies box, I figured it was just a longer Zinger with less sugar coating. What was there to miss? I slowly ate the sugar coated tampon—Zingers, and I did eventually learn to like them, but it wasn't amazing. I felt nothing but confusion.

And then I got high.

I'm not one to smoke very often. I do, but it's not a thing. So in an unforeseen event, a friend came over and we exercised our recreational rights before my realizing I had half a box of Zingers left and all the appetite in the world.

The raspberry taste was so clear, the "coconut" shreds were the perfect textural addition to the spongy goodness. I was happy. But only about as happy as I am when I wake up after a party without a hangover. It's pleasant, but soon forgotten. It was with blind faith that I trusted the food gods as I opened the Twinkies up and unwrapped one golden chemically induced sponge cake.

Proof of existence

Let me just say, there is a science— there is a mother fucking science to eating a Twinkie. One end contains more cream filling than the other, and just by looking at the bottom you can tell which end that is. That end goes first into the mouth, and unless you want to waste the taste of glory oozing down your throat, upon entering that first section into your vocal cavity you must shove the rest of it inside. The cream will dampen the rest of the cake, and the experience can be completed. If you do not look like a blowfish, you are doing something wrong. I would recommend trying again, practice makes perfect.

After learning how to perfectly blow a Twinkie, I realized at the pace I was going I really would give myself the diabetes I've worked so hard not to fall under. I stopped learning the science of Twinkies with two Twinks left to spare. I ate one the following day, and it was good, but it wasn't glory. I still have one left, it's been months.

I think I'll go eat it right now.