Throw Your Hands In The Air and Wave Them Like You Just Don’t Give A Shit



Depression: with one hand it giveth, with the other it taketh away. Wild mood swings have been a constant companion/foe of creative types for, uh, a long time. In fact, most of my literary heroes were manic depressives who battled with addiction and depression for most of their lives. I’m no different, although I highly doubt that I’m anyone’s hero since I haven’t published anything. In fact, I’ve never finished so much as a shitty short story, let alone a lame-ass novel. Half-assed, high school poetry? Yes, guilty as charged. It’s not that I’m devoid of creative verve, but every seemingly good idea I get is instantly dashed by my rigid doctrine of self censure. This urge to stifle my own output is often spurred by my chronic guilty conscience, which doesn’t make any sense from a stereotypical point of view since I come from almost wholly Irish protestant stock — mostly unpleasant sounding, Catholic-hating Presbyterians. So much for hereditary structuralism; my love is of Irish catholic descent.

But I rarely make sense anyways.

You see, most of the time, words flow most freely from my fingertips when I’m in a rotten mood (see my previous post for an example thereof — I don’t necessarily want to shoot anyone, but sometimes I like to put myself in the shoes of someone who would pull the trigger in a heartbeat. Is that so wrong?). Simply put, and to quote Eric Burdon, oh lord please don’t let me be misunderstood.


You know what I hate more than almost anything else? Pretentious, self-absorbed losers who do more living within the confines of their own skull than in the real world and consequently feel the need to act tortured in a public forum to draw attention to themselves, hoping to deflect criticism with the shield of artistic license housed in a useless degree or diploma.

So, I guess I must hate myself.

Not exactly breaking news, but why is this so? I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. Was I savaged by critics in a previous life? Or was I merely a shiteating sellout?

Again, more hubris run amok. If previous lives are even a possibility I was probably a farmer or a basket weaver somewhere in the north of Ireland (and no, I’m not a Buddhist — such a peaceful, serene religion… right. Ask anyone who crossed the Japanese during the first half of this century what they think of Buddhist pacifism and you might be surprised to hear a different story than that put forth by the likes of Richard fucking Gere or The Beastie Boys — who in all honesty should hang up their Uptowns before they become an outright embarrassment to their craft. To The Five Burroughs? Holy shit, lads, talk about a disappointment of epic proportion. I mean, I’d seriously rather listen to Cut The Crap or that shitty Kiss disco album… and my hate for Kiss is on par with racism and parsnips).

But who cares? I have no answers. I don’t even have the right questions. So, I’m going to bed.

Night. Rather, day. But I can’t tell the difference anymore.


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