Saturday, October 13, 2007: Missing organs? Rant ends at paragraph 15, subject start at 16
Current mood: restless
Stuck awake, depressed, and I probably made a mistake by watching "Saw 2" before bed time.
Can you blame me for being hard on myself? Those who do not appreciate life do not deserve it.
Great, now I gotta replace the bulletin title, it feels like a rant.
Why do I want to be a writer? I haven't put much thought into that. Really, the concept came from being declared as the total mainstream outcast from a few personality test. A weirdo, eh? Let's run with it.
So I'm stuck in ICC's Creative Writing (short stories) with a poor instructor who believes that my sense of humor is that of a scumbag. I guess a more accurate description would be from his critique of my first story that was A work with an unjust B grade.
Hey, it may not have been publishable (that's what rewrites are for), but compared to what I work shopped in class:
"There is nothing funny about these horrific events. Characters that make light of it are scumbags."
I admit my second work was not A quality, or B, I think C quality (again, rewrites), but the story was great, and readable, but his ignorance to appreciate it bugs me.
After all this, let me just say, this is more of a journal than a literary work. So fuck you for fucking nitpicking.
Now that my teacher isn't going to teach the class, I am really considering (and did) dropping it. Actually, it's not the lack of teaching, it's that the work I'm working on doesn't feel like mine.
Incorporating static stereotypical characters in my tale, took away from the inner struggle that I pride myself on. More importantly, making light of the struggle.
I didn't get much joy in turning a junky into an obese bastard. Some addictions are not universal I guess. From my experience, they can walk hand-in-hand. Just look at Carrie Clifton.
Is it wrong for wanting the world to know what kind of cunt she is (was)? At least till she has proven otherwise that is (was) my position. But still documentation for her kid to possibly come across is the important thing...right?
Now to the conflict...my instructor would probably hated the fact that I just don't say it right out. Ironic, since he failed to tell us that his head slipped up his ass as he was trying to kiss up to his so called greatness.
If you won't let me develop the characters to develop the story, don't act that way.
I've really lost the stomach for writing, at least for that fuck. It is not worth it since I got to still stick with the hell of the truck stop (I think the flames support the metaphor), or give it up and get a depressing forty-hour a week job.
I know, not all 9 to 5 are downers, but when nothing seems to be an upper, I believe the hopelessness is just.
Throughout my whole life, I busted my ass to live a worthwhile life. When it seemingly stopped (bankrupt, no bookings, constantly looked over for douche bags...which maybe redundant since it covers the prior two), I was left clueless and without the support that something good will come of the experience.
Again, I lost the stomach. Why can't the metaphor be the reality? Oh for life without the gut kayfaber. If you don't know what that is, well your not suppose to know what it it. Let's just say I'm sick of 34 inch jeans that are 3 inches to long.
So I guess, I really have lost the stomach, but without the stomach, have I lost my heart? The ability to put up with this shit. Especially in the wrestling business.
Lord knows the mind is gone. It at least seems that way. To get thrown onto 2 by 4 for my life, that can't be sane.
Take in the concussion history...well...anyone know how to suffocate on stuffed animals. If I gotta do some "Frankenstein" or Bride of Chucky bull shit to do it, I will.
After all this, the realization that I may not have the internal visceral organs (I will win my war with the liver damnit), maybe the mind is still there.
Better wrap this up, gotta bash my head into the desk a few times. Can't let this depressing sane feeling stick around.
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