| I Brought You Into This World, I Can Take You Out 10.15.2002 - I Brought You Into This World, I Can Take You Out I've been a neglectful parent. I know good and well that I'm not responsible enough to adequately care for another living creature, but I didn't know I could ignore a diary to death. I've never let this much time pass between entries before. I even managed to crawl from my bed to my desk once or twice back in May when I was sure I was about to die. Now, I don't even have an excuse. I just can't find the motivation to write here, and because of this, my baby is dying. I've been reading tons of great books and watching good films. I hoped that by putting all of these good things in my head, I might regurgitate something decent, but this has not yet been the case. If anything, consuming all this pop-art just distracts me from getting anything done or thinking of anything interesting or original. Maybe that's the point. It's not like I haven't had anything to write about either. I could write about how Mr. Bestfriendinthewholewideworld took me to see Ozomatli and Santana as my birthday gift and how this woman approached us as we danced to ask if we were married. To each other. When I told her we weren't, she asked if we were partners, to which my pal replied, "SURE WE CAN DANCE WITH PARTNERS!" Either Mr. Bestfriendinthewholewideworld didn't hear her or he's somehow acquired a knack for subtle humor. I could write about how I spent an entire Saturday locked in my bedroom until I finished my columnist application and ended up having some sort of mental breakdown that evening where I almost started crying for the first time in seven years, only I wasn't sad or upset about anything in particular. Being crazy is always good for writing. I could write about how playing Grand Theft Auto 3 makes me see that I'm much more misanthropic than I previously thought, which is quite a feat. I could write about how it's oddly comforting when I get an e-mail from The Moms that reads "ARE YOU LYING DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE???" if I haven't spoken with her in a week or so.
I could write about how seeing James Van Der Beek masturbate while listening to "Afternoon Delight" by the Starland Vocal Band in The Rules of Attraction might be the funniest thing I've seen all year and how I'm upset that hardly anyone will actually plop down the eight dollars to see it. I could write about any of these things, but I just haven't. And now my baby is suffocating. It's turning blue and cold and I don't care. Really, it's scaring me to death. I've never had a problem sitting down at the computer and banging something out. While not being able to regularly craft a diary entry isn't necessarily cause for alarm, the prospect of not being able to write on Monday nights once my column starts up again is. I hope working on someone else's deadline will get me started once again. But right now, I'm faced with the decision of whether I should try to resuscitate this child or just let it die. I'm hoping that I've raised it to the point that I can just come back and check on it when I get the time and it will remain healthy. Or maybe I can just kill it with bad metaphors. |
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