Monstrously Demeaning
"There's the pitch, slow and straight, all I have to do is swing and I'm a hero. But I'm a zero."
Six months of sloth come to an end tomorrow. Thank Christ. Or thank Target, if you'd prefer a more commercial deity. Actually, just scratch all of that. Having thought about it, Jesus is actually a hell of a lot more commercial than Target will ever be.
All of which is to say that I have officially broken the vow I made to forever forswear the monstrously demeaning world of customer service. As you can probably imagine, I am not best pleased with this state of affairs, but then not having any choice in such matters is fast becoming the norm in my brave new world. Fuck it, right? Someday I'll write a bestseller, and someday pigs will sprout golden wings. Until then, my commitment to underachievement and utter lack of motivation will conspire to build vicious circles for me to scamper around in.
It's six months since I last worked, by the way. I could have written two or even three novels in six fucking months. Perversely, I didn't even write one. In fact, I finished nothing at all, unless you count the flash fiction I penned for The Curve Ball Conspiracy and Flashing In The Gutters. The 'flash' form suits me, I suppose, requiring as it does little in the way of deep thought or long-term commitment, both of which appear to trouble my creative self.
But enough bitching. At least being back in some kind of social environment will give me things to write about, and maybe that will help me out of this apparently endless slump.
Here's hoping.
Six months of sloth come to an end tomorrow. Thank Christ. Or thank Target, if you'd prefer a more commercial deity. Actually, just scratch all of that. Having thought about it, Jesus is actually a hell of a lot more commercial than Target will ever be.
All of which is to say that I have officially broken the vow I made to forever forswear the monstrously demeaning world of customer service. As you can probably imagine, I am not best pleased with this state of affairs, but then not having any choice in such matters is fast becoming the norm in my brave new world. Fuck it, right? Someday I'll write a bestseller, and someday pigs will sprout golden wings. Until then, my commitment to underachievement and utter lack of motivation will conspire to build vicious circles for me to scamper around in.
It's six months since I last worked, by the way. I could have written two or even three novels in six fucking months. Perversely, I didn't even write one. In fact, I finished nothing at all, unless you count the flash fiction I penned for The Curve Ball Conspiracy and Flashing In The Gutters. The 'flash' form suits me, I suppose, requiring as it does little in the way of deep thought or long-term commitment, both of which appear to trouble my creative self.
But enough bitching. At least being back in some kind of social environment will give me things to write about, and maybe that will help me out of this apparently endless slump.
Here's hoping.
posted by Michael at 1:01 PM
4 Comments:
Michael - I look forward to attending one of your book signings.
It could ALWAYS be worse O'Mahoney. You could be in the baths section at Linens N Things :-| You ever seen how many fucking towels there are? All having to be folded in the special LNT way you know. Shoot me now.
Remember, a writer writes . . . always (Throw Mamma from the Train)
"I can't tell you how much I love Target and Costco, that kind of
culture, because it's something I never felt a part of. I've always felt
like a tourist because I have never fit in anywhere."
Augusten Burroughs
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