There’s a write button on the top right of my screen when you open WordPress just…staring at me.

It’s ominous in its presence because it’s so succinct. Like, hey dude, how are you not writing yet? Don’t you see this very specific button where you’re supposed to do so?

I haven’t made up a new story in a long time. There used to be stories in my head. Now there isn’t.

There is no will inside me to let people know what I think is good, what work I believe I can accomplish, and or what talent I think I have.

Writing is showing off as is all attention seeking behavior. Which is the root of the problem. I no longer want attention. In my early 20s attention is all I wanted. Now the thought of posting a Facebook status disgusts me. Why does what those people think matter to me at all. Why does what I think matter to them. Probably doesn’t. Probably just a waste of their time. And some of them might click like anyway because they feel like they should. That’s straight up gross.

Or is that all a cover for just. Not being talented anymore. Was I ever talented?

You didn’t see it just now but I had to stop writing because I was laughing so hard at that last question. Get the fuck over yourself, dude, he said to himself as well as blogging it on this website no one visits anymore.

I had this idea two years ago for a feature length script called One Last Job and it was a parody of one of my favorite movies Ocean’s 11. I wrote 42 pages and stopped.

Had this idea for a movie called Olan the Pariah where the most famous social media star in the world ruins his reputation and might go to jail over one video he made. In order to save his career and possibly his life his ruthless PR director goes to extreme measures, even dangerous ones, to get him back in the limelight. It was a really really fun idea that I loved. I wrote 52 pages and stopped.

I had this other idea called Bull Run about an alienated kid who plays a car soccer video game he loves and doesn’t really have friends. On the boys 18th birthday he is forced against his will to participate in a secret underground bull run by his drunk exiled uncle in honor of the boys father whose family obligation was to do race with his son but died a few years before the son turned 18. The uncle, basically Danny McBride, shows up for the first time in a decade to kidnap and force this kid to go on the ride of his life and find out what he’s really made of and to prove once and for all that he belongs in this wayward family. I wrote the entire outline. I know everything that happens in that movie. I wrote 13 pages of the script and stopped.


Stop complaining and be objective.

You have written in the past because you burned to put words to a thought. Now you think about being in love. About video games you like. About running a company. About relaxing. About being alone. About having fun with your friends. About having fun with your friends while drinking. About smoking alone. About how acne can come back in your late 20s…like…what the fuck is that shit? Thanks Universe. Really appreciate that lil diddy.

Stop complaining and be objective.

I need to change my diet and wash my face more and the acne will go away. To do both of those things I have to feel better about myself. To do that I need to believe what I’m thinking has value. Blah.

That wasn’t a complaint it was just feeling sad for yourself because you don’t have a better plan which is fine because plans can be made up. You’re untalented you’re not dead.

My entire being is predicated on being smart. It’s the thing I have and or had. But I have come to the realization that I’m not very smart. Not like. Relative to others. Just, relative to real life and where I sit every day. I can not coast by anymore. School I could coast. When there is an infrastructure to bend to my will I could move in and out of it with regular ease. When it involves making a plan and executing it in the void of space, I wither away.

Okay now stand in the mirror like that little curly headed girl does in the mirror in that YouTube video and say what you’re good at.

Actually, don’t. Just like, think about those things and make sure to have a second helping of getting the fuck over yourself you whiny dick.

I think I should go back to therapy. Therapy is just blogging out loud. Maybe I’ll just keep blogging. How long ago did you stop reading this? Neat.


Thought I’d check in with y’all. So….How are you, you been good? What’s your deal?