My sincere desire to put forth my honest acceptance of my chosen lifestyle is clamping on the shackles of inaction, non-writing. How can I let them know that I've discovered my lot in life and that I shall carry my burden for the rest of my days? How do I tell them that I was born…a rockstar?
I'm not sure how it happened. A lot of air guitar as a teen; theatrically performing 'Permanent Vacation' by Aerosmith in my socks and drawers at every home alone opportunity. Too many vodka blackouts and a drugs ingested for a normal job to make sense anymore. The frontal lobe epilepsy makes the most minute tasks seem impossible, and at the same time, the universe blooms chock full of potential.
I just want a social writing revolution, with a sixties-seventies rock 'n' roll lifestyle, where I jetset across the globe and vomit in bizarre locations in exotic locales. I'm not proud of it, but it's my destiny. No wait, I am proud of it. Actually I love it. I want a Philip K. Dick/Pink Floyd kinda life. A Grant/Jim-Morrison sex sandwich to sink my teeth into. A William S. Burroughs/Sigur Ros blend to cook up and inject into my thirsty veins.
I want sex, drugs, and the written word. And I won't settle for less than total revolution!
I try not to think about my writing, in fact I attempt to abolish all rational thought whilst slamming out word after word as my fingers nimbly dance out the twentysix variable symbology I use to telepathically stimulate thought and coalesce ideas in your skullmeats.
Distrust authority and make comics you bastards! I decree this and will take rubber mallets to your kneecaps if I don't see results. And yes, I expect the same lifelong limp if I don't comply as well. There is no option but to serve our will and recreate/reimagine the reality you thought you were stuck with.
Change your point of view and the world grows around you. Do it. I don't want to party alone. Open bar. I swear.
By the morning we'd forgotten all we had dreamed, and all that we had done. But after brunch, and a handful of painkillers, we'll be rewriting the revolution all over again.
Preachy preachy, Mr. Talky Talky. So much to say, so little done. Where are your drum fill short stories, the funky bass tone of comics, the blaring horns of poetry, the guitar solo movie scripts, and the lead singer novel? Never made it out of the garage band days.
Until now. Now I look back and see the pretentiousness steaming off the words above. Scathing myself for anything less than the most honest and open communication of ideas possible. I must become a true writer or else I face the hollow mirror of failure.
Everything has gone according to plan. Now to trigger the implosion.