Bad Choices make the Best Stories

I get a little closer to the keyboard everyday. A little closer to putting down some thoughts on paper, or in this case the screen. No matter how worthy, how ridiculous or arcane, I get just a tad bit closer every day. It’s been a while really. Not because I want it to be, not because I’ve been busy, overwhelmed, underwhelmed or too over overburdened with other things to write. No, just because, well because it’s been hard and I’m fucking lazy. I mean that’s what writers are if nothing else, confused. fucked up and lazy, right? But it’s been hard I hate to say that kind of shit, but yeah these past few years have been hard. The writing hurts sometimes. I know, I know, right now you’re saying, isn’t that just the most cliche bullshit you’ve ever heard. We all say it, way too much. But it’s true. Sometimes it’s all I can do to sit down in front of the screen in the morning and punch out whatever I can from my mush of a brain through my crawling skin to my fingertips, into the keyboard and onto the page. Some mornings I’m good at it, others I just puke onto the page whatever crap I can’t hold inside anymore just so I can walk away, no, run away and say I did it today. Like anyone really gives a fat rats ass what I have to say. I mean, with all I’ve seen and done you would think I would have an endless rolodex of interesting albeit sordid stories to share with the world that would impart some meaningful words of wisdom from which another can garner a good life lesson. Well, I do have a rolodex of stories in there, it’s getting them out that is the hard part. Maybe because most of them are from the sewers of my brain and to share them means I have to re-visit them. Bad choices. Bad Choices and plenty of them. Didn’t someone once say, bad choices make for the best stories? Well I’ve made plenty of them and I got ’em no lie there.

A lot has happened and what little energy I once had in this emotionally, morally and spiritually bankrupt soul to keep moving on as best intentioned as I have been, simply hasn’t been enough to keep me going. I would be lying if I said I was not emotionally beat up, spiritually battered and most morally bankrupt. But, haven’t I been all those things most of my life? I have a theory that people are basically the same as adults as they were as children. As adults we just know how to tweak our bullshit better. We get older and we’re just better at hiding in plain sight and better able to hide behind all the busy life bullshit what we really feel and who we really are so we leave the best impression on others. I’m kind of tired of leaving any impressions at all good, bad or otherwise on anyone anymore really. I’ve reached that point where I don’t necessarily give a shit what people think of me anymore. I’ve already got those who like me and love me and a gang of people who aren’t particularly fond of me or downright ate my fucking guts. So why keep heaping onto an already full plate. Everyday I wake up, raise my mug enough to peek through the blinders from my pillow and think today is the day. Today might be the day. Today is the day it might be possible to do something unusual, something memorable, something not ordinary. Then I roll over and go back to sleep until 11 a.m.

I used to have a rebellious spirit an thirst for excitement and a love of discovery. Well, to be honest it’s more like an anti-authority complex coupled with a sick obsession to adult delinquency, mayhem and general debauchery with a carnival gypsy’s who gives a fuck attitude. Like I said, I care less what others think of me these days than ever before. I’m just as fucked up, sick and twisted as I’ve ever been, shit maybe more so, only now I’m sober instead of drunk and high. I’m still me, maybe that’s the problem? I just want to find that attitude again and live. I seem to have lost it somewhere from these past few years on the way to now. I don’t want to forget how to really, truly live. Sadly, I know more people that have cheated themselves out of living than I do people who live like there is no tomorrow. Most people never stray out of a fifty mile radius from where they were born. Yes there is a huge difference between living like there’s no tomorrow and living like an asshole. Though I still struggle to find it. My point is, comfortability, contentment and fear of making a bad choice will kill a life while you’re still breathing. Bad choices keep shit interesting. I’m on the hunt for that again. I know if I stop looking so hard I’ll find its again. I like walking down the the dark dangerous alleys, stink of the street corners, dark dingy rooms and the ‘don’t know if I’m gonna get outta this one alive’ situations. At the end of the day it’s just who I am. I just have to remember to watch out for those bad choices.

But bad choices, make for the best stories, and if you’re going to be bad be fucking good at it. It’s time to write those pages.