All Dried Up in There


The will to write is inversely proportional to the will to live. Wait, that’s a terrible thing to say – it implies all people who write are miserable. The motivation to write is a deeply personal things. Some people need to be happy, or at least not at their rock bottom depression. Other people can’t write when moderately happy and kept fairly busy. Some people can’t help but write when they’re really REALLY happy as they have so much joy to spread with the world. Writing, in any case, is tied to somebody’s emotional state of being.

I can’t complain. It’s been witch’s-teet cold for the past few weeks spare yesterday when the temperature bounced up thirty degrees or so centigrade. Time has been moderately spent with family and friends and moderately spent alone, sometimes drinking alone and sometimes idly alone, but also sometimes productively and soberly alone so it’s a fair mix overall. Things are financially okay, I’ve been eating like it’s Christmas or something, and my health has been reasonable with my immune system overcoming seasonal challenges fairly well. Things are okay!

But the petty shit like buried family resentment that comes out more audibly as somewhat louder and more enunciated muttering around the holidays; like carrying sand and dirty footprints into the apartment from the plowed sidewalks; like still not being an expert at a job I only started months ago – this continues, but with enough contentness to not feel like writing about it. Writer and co-podcaster Mikey Neumann (@mikeyface) tweeted a BuzzFeed article that quotes one of his tweets this year about white people complaining about white people problems even though it was a benign sentence about his cable crapping out before something he wanted to watch. Apparently making small deals out of small problems reeks of entitlement and privilege. Perhaps I shouldn’t go there, then, as my tedious problems aren’t worthy of even micro-commentary let alone several paragraphs of blog space. (You do know that the internet is nearly infinite in its capacity for content, right BuzzFeed? I mean, you should; you post some of the most useless garbage on your own.)

I made a goal at the beginning of the year to write a certain number of posts that is just unattainable at this point. It’s entirely my fault, and I’m the only one to face any superficial consequences. I could make a similar goal for next year, to try to make up for this utter failure, but I can’t guarantee things will be either good enough or shitty enough to write. Even if things are that good or that shitty, it’s relative to my own motivation and what I have to say will be perhaps even more trite to others than predominant topics when my mood is middle ground, like my phone’s ever expanding malfunctions or how obnoxious it gets when people keep telling me I have to watch a TV series.

Like health goals, it shouldn’t be about the numbers – not about the pounds lost but about feeling good! Not about the posts written but about feeling inspired! But if I manage all my other tedious problems, feeling inspired doesn’t make it very high on that list. Keeping myself properly medicated is more important than frustration over the injustice of having a condition to begin with. Getting along with other people to lower my stress is a better route to take than complaining constantly about their chosen ignorance of world problems. Nights of solid sleep are more rewarding than keeping abreast of all the terrible news in this terrible world and picking it apart for the public to find in a corner of the internet where no one has any reason to go.

And I would hate to share these ways I address everyday problems as if I’m a self-help guru with something valuable to say. That is a contradiction of itself on the first level, and against so many of my principles on the next. Things are okay. No news is good news. Please keep your opinions on nothingness to yourself.


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