Friday Morningish Thoughts, And a Bit of Recap.

Rather than a proper opener on a day like today, I will open with a shout out to my fellow writer and co-blogger Jared Henke. Jared is the man. How much of a man is he you ask? (Thanks for asking.) Jared pulls more hoes than a California Firefighter, oh, and it’s brush-fire season ladies.

Now that’s the type of juvenile shit I’m bringing on a Friday. Let’s have some fun here… But more importantly, let’s promote my past posts… Understand, I am setting out to write about absolutely nothing today, but I am still trying to keep you entertained. (I do it for the people – that’s what I named my ego.)

I woke up this morning and looked over at my dog, and I told her, “let’s make today our bitch.” She looked up at me like “I can’t speak English you drunk fool,” and I said “you know, it’s 9 o’clock, making the day our bitch can wait until 10 at the least.” That’s what I call unmotivated anthropomorphism right there. Boom. Five dollar word. I’m smart.

Now you’re probably thinking – if you read my previous posts, and if you haven’t, than you probably aren’t thinking – hey, your shit is pretty dreary and sometimes out-right depressing, how about something uplifting and nice. And in return I think… how do I know what you’re thinking. (That’s where that ends, but anyways…)

Weekend Motivation for my peeps:
You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, unless you’re like Kobe Bryant. Then you miss a lot of the shots you take anyways and then some punk ass kid makes a meme about you and the end of your career becomes a punchline. If that doesn’t motivate you to stay inside and have a good weekend, I don’t know what will.

There comes an age in life where hangovers become a thing… I guess it’s why they say youth is wasted on the young. Times like these.

Oscar Wilde once said that only the dull are brilliant in the morning – this is why I sleep in.

Here’s Chinese Philosopher Lao Tzu as interpreted in the 21st century:
He who burns twice as bright, burns half as long… So put your shades on bitches, because we’re going out tonight!

Oh yes, how I love it when a woman calls me childish… Do know why:

“Genius is no more than childhood recaptured at will, childhood equipped now with man’s physical means to express itself, and with the analytical mind that enables it to bring order into the sum of experience, involuntarily amassed.” – Charles Baudelaire

Now we are onto something. Or maybe I’m just a man-child. (Grow up you asshole. I hear it in my dreams… And those are the good ones.)

Good ideas don’t just come to you. You’ve got to work for it – it’s like the hand-job, people have forgotten the proper technique… But seriously, you meet the ideas half-way, or sometimes you meet them a little closer to their place if you’re really desperate and you need a release… I’m talking about creativity… I think.

The Things We Say, The Things We Don’t, was my most hit writing and most liked. I got good feedback from this one. If you have yet to read it, please do so. I don’t mind being my own hype man…

https://theslinkylife.wordpress.com/2014/11/12/the-things-we-say-the-things-we-dont/

Failed Braggadocio, that rhymes:

Have you ever, in your long legged life
Met a guy who writes so often
And still writes this nice?

(It only fails because writers aren’t sexy… Let’s change that.)

Now I have been mixing it up with different material. Thursday I wrote a post about becoming who you are and staying that way. Well, that’s a nice way of putting it. I wrote about how exterior sources bear down on us and influence us so heavily that we can’t recognize ourselves anymore. As the writer Rita Mae Brown once wrote, “I think the reward for conformity is that everyone likes you except yourself.”

https://theslinkylife.wordpress.com/2014/11/13/thirsty-thursday/

Romance may be dying, but I’m no doctor. Read these anyway if you missed out:

https://theslinkylife.wordpress.com/2014/11/06/part-1-of-2-quit-using-your-hands-use-your-mouth/

https://theslinkylife.wordpress.com/2014/11/07/part-2-of-2-masks-sociopaths-dweebs-oh-yea-and-true-love/

Thomas Edison said genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. This brings a whole new meaning to “don’t sweat it, dumb ass.”

More failed braggadocio, that rhymes:

I don’t know what I’m saying until I’ve said it
Watch me kick this, like a still can
This is what happens when hard work meets genetics
Walking proof of a high IQ milkman.

(Sorry pops.)

This is diversifying right?

Smoking is bad, but check out this post.

https://theslinkylife.wordpress.com/2014/11/05/god-dammit-i-could-use-a-cigarette/

Speaking of passing judgment on peoples life choices. Someone should write a story about a guy who gives up smoking, drinking, promiscuous sex, fattening foods, and drugs. Because of this, at the end of the book he also gives up on life. Everyone likes a story that has a moral to it.

Jared and I are trying to get to 1000 blog followers. Then we will set a new goal. Probably 2000. (We’re original like that.) Help a couple brothas out. It’s hard out here for a pimp. Well, I’m just a word-player. I don’t get paid for it, but I still loves it.

More failed braggadocio, that rhymes:

Feeling like the best, like only the best believe
You see, the pencil game must be big
I’m responsible for the looseness of loose leaf
Double teaming meanings, don’t you see what I did?

(It’s getting out of hand, I know.)

Check the old posts. Look around. Leave comments. Check out the fellow blogger Jared, and put the pressure on him to turn up the writing.

The Things We Say, The Things We Don’t

We have all crafted elegant thoughts in our minds, but when we eventually open our mouths to say them, we fall so short of what our daydreaming entailed. This is no more apparent than with the ones we care about most. It is, as Led Zeppelin would say, the communication break-down.
We are all the masters of the words we have spoken, but we fall slave to the words we’ve never said… This may be true, but a writer does not get caught up in linguistic hierarchies. A writer merely works with the words… Fuck it, let me show you…
Fade in…

When I saw her, I had to meet her, and then I told her, “Writers should only write about the things they know. I would like to be able to write about you someday.”

I didn’t tell her that’s a bunch of shit. No one knows vampires, no one knows zombies, and no one knows men with massive penises and even larger bank accounts who charm ladies into pure fantasy orgasms… (Well maybe people know that last one. Dammit.) But they still write about those things. A lot.

I won’t ever tell her that beneath the smooth conversation is a mind working furiously to filter out her beauty and focus on cognitive thoughts. Well, no one will tell her that, it’s stupid to say. (Ouch.) Plus it’s impossible to filter that kind of beauty out.

I still always get words out somehow.

And sometimes they make sense.
Now I tell her she deserves someone who treats her so much better than she’s been treated in the past, but I still try. Most people only follow their own advice.

I don’t tell her that I don’t.

I don’t tell her how much I enjoy watching her add beauty to the day. Adding the depth of poetry to the minutia. Daily tasks will never look this good again I think. She looks over at me, and I can only quote my favorite Seidel poem, Arabia, “I’m happy staring at what makes me stare.” She’s never known a guy who can quote literature before.

I don’t tell her the poem’s context. So it seems more romantic, and less sexual. I only always mean the best. Plus, romantic words seem less romantic when there is a throbbing erection involved. Or maybe that’s the fallacy of phallus I just conjured up.

She tells me I’m too good for my own good, and that if more people were like me this world would be a better place.

I don’t tell her that sounds a little too cliché, because in that moment, I forget to tell myself that.

I tell her she can’t stay mad at me, right after I do something stupid.

I don’t tell her that people being mad at me doesn’t bother me, even though I know it should. (Especially the people that matter.) And I don’t tell her I know she’ll come back around, because she doesn’t know anyone else who is like me. Not even close.

I tell her she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and anyone I’ll ever meet, but I don’t tell her how much I miss her. Pride has ruined many a man greater than I.

She tells me she is talking to someone else. She tells me I should too.

I don’t tell her that I can’t.

I disappear for a while. I do this at times, but each time I comeback, I’ve grown a little, and she notices, but she only tells me I’m a loner. She doesn’t understand why I go away.

I don’t tell her that I feel more alone when I’m around her, but she’s not really there. Lost in her head because of problems with some other man. So I just tell her I love her, in a convincing way. I can’t tell her I always have. For some reason I think it has to be fresh in that moment.

She doesn’t tell me she can’t believe it. She doesn’t tell me she’s scared to because I disappear so easily. She doesn’t have to, I know this.

So she just laughs and tells me that I don’t. She says I just say those things…

If only she knew the things I don’t say…

…I didn’t say.

I know hope is as hollow as fear, so I don’t go with the hopeless romantic moniker. But sometimes I do think the thoughts of people all over the world… In ways they don’t think them. Tonight I think of unrequited love: Tonight I can write the saddest lines, to steal from the poet Pablo Neruda, “I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.”

I see her now, and I tell her I miss her. I don’t tell her I still love her. I don’t think I still do. So much time has passed, but I’ll never regret the sand in the bottom of the hour glass.

I still tell her she was the greatest I’ve ever known.

But she’s changed now.

Or maybe I’ve changed.

I don’t tell her I know memory is the biggest liar anyone will ever know. I don’t tell her I ignore this fact because I’d rather misremember and have an angel in my past. I don’t tell her these things, because this time I just don’t want to hear myself say them.

I just tell her, “I hope everything is going well.”

And just like that, a writer’s love story burns out with small talk, like the last few flickers of light from dying coals. Never able to warm me again.

Fade out…