So here I am at Creative Writing Night... I'm typing with one hand (hunt and peck, hunt and peck), and with the other, I am lovingly scratching Ron's grey furry feline ass. My phone is vibrating in my lap, and I ignore it because tonight, I have much more important things to ponder.
1. What can I possibly write about? I mean, there is plenty to write about. But nothing that I feel inspired to rant about just yet.
2. What am I doing with the rest of my life? I love writing, I love art, I love expressing myself through these mediums. I just need to be pragmatic for once and decide, "where is the goddamned money?". Life is too short to live in a shithole studio guesthouse for the rest of my pathetic life. I need to be objective and actually do something with my life. I mean, I AM thirty years old now. THIRTY YEARS OLD. I never thought I'd ever live to say that.
Honestly. I was that much of an asshole.
Any way, thirty is that grown up age. My mother had me by the time that she was thirty. She was married, with 2 kids, paying bills, being a housewife. 6 years later, she'd be a widow, with a third child, a second house to sell, making funeral arrangements for her husband of 12 years. Wow. That really helps me put my life in perspective.
I always make the excuse that times are different now, that I need to take my time and make the right decisions in life, but in reality I know there are no right decisions... just varying degrees of wrong.
I digress.
Ultimately, what I'd like to do is create a journal retelling my experiences in life, from childhood, adulthood, and whatever other hood I can fit in. Part of me says that I'm out of my mind to believe that my life is so interesting that anyone else would give a shit what I have to say, or what boring pompous stories I can tell. Another side of me says that I've read books that were less eventful, that have opened my eyes and made me see, feel, smell, experience what that author was going through.
Anyway, I'm rambling again!
I'll start with a story.
As a child, I'd always expected that I'd do something boring and meaningful with myself, as far as a career goes. I'd imagined I'd become a doctor, a veterinarian, a lawyer, a psychiatrist, anything that is boring and requires lots of schooling. On career day, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my usual reply was, "an astronaut." I always thought that answer required the least explanation, and was an indication that I was aspiring to do the impossible (something that seems to be really important in public schooling to keep the poor folk down). I also thought that "astronaut" was one of those really typical answers like, "firefighter" or, "President of The United States," that teachers expected dumb school children to say. To me, it was much easier than saying, "I don't know" (requires explanation and prodding from the teachers because God forbid an 8 year old not know what to do with the rest of her life) or "housewife" (hey, just following by example).
My answer was usually received with a pat on the back, and a patronizing smile, followed with some "follow your dreams" speech. I usually anticipated these things, and I would smile and nod my head quickly in agreement, anything to get the spotlight off of me. The teacher would move on to Billy or Bobby (this is just a stereotype, if I was being accurate, it'd be Jose or Julio), who would give some lame unrealistic answer, and she'd smile and praise the child and say some lame words of encouragement. It kind of bothered me to hear the teacher tell useless, illiterate children that they could do anything with their lives. I felt like it was invalidating what she was just saying to me. Sure, I did answer some ridiculous answer like "astronaut," but still. I think I still had more chance of becoming an astronaut than this retarded kid Billy did of becoming President of The United States. I call bullshit on that lying whore.
Which brings me to my point... why the fuck didn't I just stick to the plan and become an astronaut?! My decision making skills infuriate me. Okay, sure, I would've probably never become an actual astronaut, but maybe I'd have gone to a good college (or a college at all, for starters) and I would've maybe studied physics and whatever other stuff they make astronauts study, and maybe I'd be a scientist or something. Anything that pays actual money. At least I wouldn't be living in a studio guest house in North Hollywood with a cat that pees on my bed and a stack of bills that just stare me down on a daily basis saying, "FEEEED MEEEEE".
Ah. Life is good, brother. Life is good...
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