Why I'm A Better Writer Than You

Every morning, I wake up and try to pretend as if I have something important to do. This usually starts with my alarm (all three of them) going off at around 6:00 in the morning. Yet, I persist to sleep in until 8:00, 9:30 in some cases. I want to wake up at an ungodly hour, like the rest of the working minions of this city, but that rarely ever happens. Keep in mind, though, that I'm past the point of sleeping anywhere close to 12 noon. That seems to be an hour reserved only for teenagers, pot heads, and alcoholics - all three of which I stopped being a while ago.

When I finally do get out of bed, I will usually go straight to my computer and stare at the screen for at least an hour. I call this process "Forcing Brilliance." Though I don't talk about it often, this is how it works: I will try to think about what I've been doing with myself for the last few days. I search for any distinct patterns or events. Most of the time, I will draw a blank because I realize that all I've been doing is sitting in my apartment. So, I then think about all of the things I've seen around my apartment that could warrant a composition. From this step, I'm able to string together the themes of "Killer Summer Abs," "Barack Obama," "broken XBox 360," and "vacuum carpet." Now I'm getting somewhere. The next step is the most difficult, because I will spend the next hour trying to convince myself that people would even care to read what I write. You see: the role of the writer is to tell a story. What's beautiful about the internet is that everyone can tell a story; what's horrible about the internet is that most people can't tell a story to save there lives. I mean, have you looked at what's out there? I'm trying to be taken seriously. That's why, in every blog post I write, I make sure to be profound, and wordy, and mention a bunch of indie bands you probably have never heard of. And, I say something snarky about rich kids. But, my master yarns are competing against piano-playing cats, defecating porn stars, and Perez Hilton. This is worse than high school. Back then, at least I understood why no one listened to me - they were all idiots. But now, thanks to the internet, I feel like I'm competing against The Shortbus All-Stars; and presently, they're kicking my ass at the 100 Yard Dash. For the next hour, I have a nervous breakdown, burn all of my notebooks, and call my mom for a self-assuring guilt-trip.

Two hours later, I am writing again. If this were the mid to late '90s, I would be able to say I "got my groove back," but thanks to VH1, I can apparently be mocked for such nostalgia. But to be fair, 1999 was practically a decade ago... and that still freaks me out. Where the hell did my youth go? Anyway, I have successfully put together a semi-coherent argument about... something. I've learned to stop questioning whether anything I write is good anymore; mostly because I know it's not, but I'll argue that it is until the day I die. "Why is this guy so hard on himself?" you're probably wondering, "I've enjoyed reading this, so far." You have to understand: the high point of my writing career was when I was fifteen and I started reading Allen Ginsberg. For the next three years after, I wrote volumes of poetry that mimicked the Gay Bard's work. He and I were brilliant. It didn't matter that I was writing about things I had never experienced - like sex, drugs, and sky-diving - because writing about things you have never experienced - like sex, drugs, and sky-diving - with great detail means you know something about life. Poetry isn't about being literal, it's about fluffy imagery and sounding important. By my senior year though, I did finally come to my senses, and I started to write everything in a hip-hop freestyle, because I had learned to be okay with being myself. But we all know: the minute a writer can be okay with "being himself," his career is officially dead. I wasn't even twenty years old.

Another hour later, I have finally something put together that I think my fan base will enjoy. Let me remind you, I was working off the inspiration "Killer Summer Abs," "Barack Obama," "broken XBox 360," and "vacuum carpet." I have crafted a wonderfully acerbic little blog post about why women won't sleep with me, and for that, why I blame my mother. Now, I realize that I seem to write about the same subject quite often. But this one is different, because I've included several leaked tracks off of Guns N Roses Chinese Democracy. I've also successfully taken several vague swipes at some of the women I have "been romantic with," but who ultimately left me for someone else. That'll show 'em! No one breaks my heart without getting a ego-destroying stab that is purposefully vague so that no one thinks I'm jerk, but justified in my resentment! I spell check, proof-read, make sure that there is a minimum amount of references to The Replacements, and then send it out into the vast negative zone that is the internet.

You may still be wondering, "This guy opened this post with the euphemism 'pretend as if I have something important to do', but it sounds like this is pretty important to him. He finds time to express himself in ways he can't do otherwise, and for an audience no less. Has he ever stopped to think that maybe there are people out there who look forward to what he has to say?" In short answer: yes, of course I have. I know that there are people out there who sit in front of their computer and think "My God, if I can't read something interesting in the next two minutes, I think I'm going to kill myself." But you have to understand, though I'm happy to help prevent mass suicide on a semi-daily basis, that's not quite enough for me. I have to believe that something bigger waits for me outside of the confines of my apartment. Something that is bright, and beautiful, and there's a lot of money, and topless women, and endless buffets, and I can see Bette Midler perform every night... Vegas? Wait a minute, I'm waiting for Vegas to happen? Aw Christ, now I'm really depressed. Waiting for Vegas. Jesus, why don't I just move back to New Jersey and pretend like none of this ever happened.