Those who gain knowledge from life’s joys & tragedies eventually stumble into discovering how allowing oneself to stop caring is the healthiest thing to do in a lot of situations. Fortunately for me, that’s getting easier and easier with every passing tick of the clock’s second-hand. I’m the Captain in Lethal Weapon 2 whose mantra is “I don’t give a fuck.” I am a sensei of The Honest Meditation of Fuck That. Call it what-ever, label me if you must, but that I don’t give a fuck shit is a solid defense mechanism. It’s protected me, and a lot of people in public places. Should I get pissed at strangers? Should I explain how rude it is to stop and have a conversation while standing in the god-damned doorway of the grocery store!?? Or should I expound on how nobody but a fucking MORON blocks a driveway, parking lot, or intersection when stopped at a fucking red light!!??? No, nuh-uh, nah, fuck that… No dumb-ass is worth my peace of mind. I don’t give a fuck.
Ol’ Tim Leary had it right; tune in, turn on, drop out. But, y’know, read my blog… and like it… and calm every insecure fear I’ve ever had about my human existence.
Is self-deprecating neurotic humor still, like, a thing? Oh, fuck it. If shoulder pads, mom-jeans, and The Rachel can come back, clearly anything goes. Whatever. I don’t give a fuck.
I don’t know what I thought I should expect when I decided on a whim to participate in something I’ve never been successful at before, but the time just feels right for it now. And I’m starting to entertain the fantasy of how becoming wildly-popular 60-years from now (shortly after my death) is probably the ideal scenario for me; all the recognition I not-so-secretly crave, without all the human-interaction which causes me to break out in hives and have a panic attack.
I’m not sure I even have any expectations for posting a daily blog other than to hear the click of this keyboard typing out the creative non-fiction outline of my life story. I’d like to write freely, because I have to censor myself so much in real life. (Which is pretty funny, because I think most of my friends already consider me unfettered, unfiltered, and uncensored… and unhinged, uninhibited, unable to respect boundaries…
…but I digress.)
No, the public me is nothing compared to the me in my head, and the team of censors I have in there working day and night to keep the collateral damage from the chemical bombs to a minimum. It’s grueling work, but they knew what they signed up for…
My goal, in all honesty, is just to get into a good habit of writing every day, and drop the bad habit of spending too long surfing social media news pages. I’m hoping to build up an immunity to the poison by limiting myself to very mall doses of it.
In perusing other blogs linked to the #NaNoPoblano challenge, I confirmed what I’ve thought all along, which is: I know nothing about blogging. I mean, not really. I’m just not sure how much of a fuck I should give about it. That being said, everyone who’s been checking out my posts are my new best friends. I love them. I can’t live without them.
Admittedly, I’m full of ideas, and to quite an annoying degree. I have more ideas than I do follow-through; like, the odds are probably 100 to 1. No, 1000 to 1! For every thousand ideas I have, I’ll pick one to go for, and regret the other nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine ones I should have gone for instead. And then when I do follow though, I feel like I have far more failures than successes. My parents raised a I-never-want-to-fail-so-I’m-never-going-to-try-anything kind of kid. The irony of that being I’ve had upwards of around 50 jobs in my life (so far), sometimes 2 & 3 at a time, and I’ve gotten pretty good at a lot of stuff over the years. But do something with my writing? No, nuh-uh, nah, fuck that… No dumb-ass is worth my peace of mind. I don’t give a fuck.
Then again, when I decided to jump off that airplane, I just had to trust the ‘chute would open and I’d be okay.