I'm cool, you're cool, we're cool, except you over there--definitely not cool
Ok, it looks like I'm past the worst of what has to be the most intense early morning munchy craving ever without the aid of weed. Taking a couple of hits of fried chicken--that's Ezell's fried chicken, mind you--ice cream, hawaaiiaan rolls and a candy bar I think did the job.
So apparently the greatest get rich scheme ever is to exchange mutual compliments amongst friends--get rich emotionally. Yeah, just be like, "Hey, you're awesome," and then the other person chances are will say, "Hey, you know what, you too." I think returning home to Seattle for a while has re-taught me the value of good friends. You know who you are.
And that right there is the problem. What kind of thought is that? I, or whoever is reading this, could have just picked up a Reader's Digest to benefit from such sage reflection of peasant wisdom. The value of good friends, eh? Extremely tired prose. The above-mentioned problem is not that of not really having anything to say of value. I'm thinking about all the writing in the world, then about how the majority of which is bad even on a professional published level, and then about all the hack writers, such as we who populate domains such as livejournal and myspace. What the hell are we writing about? The trivial, mundane details of our lives? Yes, it is important to value those and perhaps turn them into something transcendental. But when it comes to writing about it, what's the need? And of all the things you could be writing about, is it really worthwhile to write about how you got really hungry or went on a slightly longer than usual run? Sure, you attempt to tell the story in an entertaining fashion, but what is entertainment in a journal? A person's time in a day is limited, and of course to spend some of it writing is a noble endeavor, but I don't see why that tiny slice should be sacrificed for patter.
OK, so then the next logical expectation is to write something of significance. We have now arrived at problem #2. What the hell do I actually have to say? Likely nothing, which might mean that I am in fact hiding behind the mundane details as an excuse to actually stick my neck and out and say something. I have insecurity to do so because I feel like any half-formed ideas or questions and especially philosophical inklings are asinine to put down in any form because my not knowing something or regarding a question as new is a result of my not having read enough to know the dialogues that have already occurred on the subject. In other words, I feel like I would be embracing ignorance to even try. But then, you hear the voice of society whining, "Try, try, just give it a try. The most important thing is to try!" And there's probably some credence to that. The ironic thing (is it ironic? I can never completely tell) is that I am putting down ideas in some form by writing this. But what the hell is this, anyway? I'm tempted to give in to sophism and say that this is all tautological, but I haven't yet come full circle yet, let alone make multiple circles. No, sophism is the easy way out. I am at a crossroads now: I can attempt to keep writing on the subject although I feel the mild tremor of inspiration draining, or I could puss out and quit. The choice is between being a pussy or a bore. [passage of time] Ahhhhh I'm going to go with the pussy route. It's getting late(r) and I can feel the effect of the above-mentioned items of food.
Despite what I have just written, I will probably disregard most of it and continue to write about the mundane in a moderately entertaining fashion. At this point livejournal seems more ridiculous than ever. Watch me eat my words and post an entry later today!
So apparently the greatest get rich scheme ever is to exchange mutual compliments amongst friends--get rich emotionally. Yeah, just be like, "Hey, you're awesome," and then the other person chances are will say, "Hey, you know what, you too." I think returning home to Seattle for a while has re-taught me the value of good friends. You know who you are.
And that right there is the problem. What kind of thought is that? I, or whoever is reading this, could have just picked up a Reader's Digest to benefit from such sage reflection of peasant wisdom. The value of good friends, eh? Extremely tired prose. The above-mentioned problem is not that of not really having anything to say of value. I'm thinking about all the writing in the world, then about how the majority of which is bad even on a professional published level, and then about all the hack writers, such as we who populate domains such as livejournal and myspace. What the hell are we writing about? The trivial, mundane details of our lives? Yes, it is important to value those and perhaps turn them into something transcendental. But when it comes to writing about it, what's the need? And of all the things you could be writing about, is it really worthwhile to write about how you got really hungry or went on a slightly longer than usual run? Sure, you attempt to tell the story in an entertaining fashion, but what is entertainment in a journal? A person's time in a day is limited, and of course to spend some of it writing is a noble endeavor, but I don't see why that tiny slice should be sacrificed for patter.
OK, so then the next logical expectation is to write something of significance. We have now arrived at problem #2. What the hell do I actually have to say? Likely nothing, which might mean that I am in fact hiding behind the mundane details as an excuse to actually stick my neck and out and say something. I have insecurity to do so because I feel like any half-formed ideas or questions and especially philosophical inklings are asinine to put down in any form because my not knowing something or regarding a question as new is a result of my not having read enough to know the dialogues that have already occurred on the subject. In other words, I feel like I would be embracing ignorance to even try. But then, you hear the voice of society whining, "Try, try, just give it a try. The most important thing is to try!" And there's probably some credence to that. The ironic thing (is it ironic? I can never completely tell) is that I am putting down ideas in some form by writing this. But what the hell is this, anyway? I'm tempted to give in to sophism and say that this is all tautological, but I haven't yet come full circle yet, let alone make multiple circles. No, sophism is the easy way out. I am at a crossroads now: I can attempt to keep writing on the subject although I feel the mild tremor of inspiration draining, or I could puss out and quit. The choice is between being a pussy or a bore. [passage of time] Ahhhhh I'm going to go with the pussy route. It's getting late(r) and I can feel the effect of the above-mentioned items of food.
Despite what I have just written, I will probably disregard most of it and continue to write about the mundane in a moderately entertaining fashion. At this point livejournal seems more ridiculous than ever. Watch me eat my words and post an entry later today!