I'm a hack. I sit and sit and sit and type and type and type and I come up with handfulls of shit. I sift the shit through my fingers and let it drip down my arm and hit the page. Still, it's shit. Goddam worthlessness of it all. Even when I complete things, they feel immature by the time I'm done with them. I outgrow myself like a toddler outgrows his clothes. It's insane. When will I catch up with myself? When will I feel like I am comfortable in this shoe size? Never? Is that the whole point of it? To constantly chase your self. To always feel a step behind what you feel you're capable of. It leaves me with an interminable feeling of dissatisfaction. That's the truly unfortunate part of it. I feel like a dick. I read my own work and I feel alterantely miserable and pitiful. Even if I were to read this pointless ranting I'm doing here, I'd feel the same. I can only hope that no one will ever have the misfortune to read this pitiable self-loathing discharge.
So, I had a terrible night of sleep last night. I moved from the bedroom to the living room and slept on the couch. Immediately after I snatched up the pillow and made for the door, my wife, if that is who she says she is, rolled over and said, "Yes, now I can spread out" and flopped over to consume the entirety of the bed with her 4'10" body. That made me feel worse than I already did because I knew that she didn't care. She's the cause of my sleeplessness in the first place. Or, rather, WE are the cause of it. We're not getting along. We're at odds on most things, even the trivial bullshit of a normal day. We've managed to devolve into some primordial blob versions of ourselves, tapping into the most animal, snapping, reacting, freakish, base ways of living. We are like Pac Man and Ms. Pac Man. We just chomp up the little pellets and move on to the next level which looks strangely like the last one but faster. (What a sad analogy. I haven't even played a video game since 1988. Have they progressed since Ms. Pac Man? I don't know).
Oh, no more self-pity. Time to move on. This is the kind of stuff that I usually keep private. Maybe it will stay that way. Maybe it should.
So, I had a terrible night of sleep last night. I moved from the bedroom to the living room and slept on the couch. Immediately after I snatched up the pillow and made for the door, my wife, if that is who she says she is, rolled over and said, "Yes, now I can spread out" and flopped over to consume the entirety of the bed with her 4'10" body. That made me feel worse than I already did because I knew that she didn't care. She's the cause of my sleeplessness in the first place. Or, rather, WE are the cause of it. We're not getting along. We're at odds on most things, even the trivial bullshit of a normal day. We've managed to devolve into some primordial blob versions of ourselves, tapping into the most animal, snapping, reacting, freakish, base ways of living. We are like Pac Man and Ms. Pac Man. We just chomp up the little pellets and move on to the next level which looks strangely like the last one but faster. (What a sad analogy. I haven't even played a video game since 1988. Have they progressed since Ms. Pac Man? I don't know).
Oh, no more self-pity. Time to move on. This is the kind of stuff that I usually keep private. Maybe it will stay that way. Maybe it should.
posted by rubiconvict at 6:29 AM
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