Day Two

I suppose I should start coming up with wittier titles.

Here's a problem that I think most writers probably share and it fits in with what I mentioned yesterday - the bit about a writer being someone for whom writing is inherently more difficult than for other people: Since I call myself a writer, I have little to no desire to actually do something that involves writing - like writing a thank you note, or a witty email to be seen by more than one person, or a toast, or a grocery list - for fear of being found out, I suppose; of not living up to my title as a writer. Any time I write anything, in the back of my head I hear people say, "And you call yourself a writer." (Please note that I recognize the inherent contradiction in what I'm saying while simultaneously "writing" a blog. I am, as a person, an inherent contradiction. It is what it is.)

Thus, something like a title, if it isn't immediately obvious could cause me quite a bit of anxiety. So for today, let's just stick with "Day Two."

(Loving the "quotations" today.)

Wanna know why I want to be a writer? Too bad, I'm going to tell you - I hate to work. I hate having obligations. I hate doing just about anything. I don't like waking up in the morning. I don't like...

(Have to break for a quick second. I was positive that I just felt an earthquake. But the earthquake data bank for Los Angeles doesn't show anything, which means I'm losing my mind. This, of course, is fantastic news, since, as we all know, being bat shit insane is the first step to being universally regarded as a genius. Bring on the padded cell, I got a pen and pad waiting.)
...
They probably won't let me have a pen in the padded cell, huh?

Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled programing. (I'm really feeling earthquakes. I swear this apartment is shaking.) ...shopping, driving, phone calls, bills, spending money in any form for any reason, standing in line, dealing with any number of ass holes who also probably hate the same things I do, and probably hate a whole hell of a lot more, because their spouse is fed up and looking to have an affair out of spite, their kids are resentful and secretly hoping their parents find the stash of drugs under their bed just so they can know how resentful they are, and decided to take it out on me, the lowest rung of the ladder, which, I'd like to note, is always the rung that breaks first. The bottom rung is a bad place to be.

Now, this is not to be confused with laziness. I do all these things, just begrudgingly. So for fuck's sake, would somebody throw down a little green for me to sit on my ass and type at a computer. Is that too much to ask!?

(Like I said yesterday - complete lack of rational pragmatism.)

Today, I did write, though. I finished the first draft of that little short screenplay I was working on. It's about a British guy with OCD who's also schizophrenic and envisions as friends both John Wilkes Booth and a black Abraham Lincoln. I've already cast this little ditty in my head with some actor friends. Hopefully I can get this puppy up and running, 'cause I really need to direct something soon. (Oh, let's add to the clichés, shall we? Say this in an obnoxiously pompous, self-inflated voice: "I'm a writer, but what I really want to do is direct." Then buy a gun, find me, and shoot me.)

OK. I'm tired now. Gonna go watch an episode of the West Wing. See you tomorrow.