Read This

 The night is punctured by sips of a peppermint tea and drags off a cigarette. I wrote a short essay about grief. 

And I’m wondering what really matters: do I want to spend my days writing blog posts while revealing my life to the world? (“Inquiring minds wanna know”) There’s something so self satisfying about this venture, I have to admit. My ego lights up just as much the dopamine receptors in my brain (did you ever think writing could get you high? I’m here to tell you, yes it can! (I am not endorsing that, by the way)). If you’ve read enough of my rambling, you’ll notice a recurring theme: I’m chemically dependent, past reminiscent, and a literary junkie. I only hope there is a place in the world for this type of work. And I don’t know where I’m going with this. 

This could be just a phase, or it could be my life’s purpose. The first reason is likely, and the other is far fetched. I’ve gone through a couple fads thus far. I got really into gymnastics as a kid after watching the summer Olympics. In high school I was really into art. In my adulthood I thought pot was the answer, which threw several hobbies out the window. Then I thought alcohol was THE answer, which was really just a dumb question (why me, god?), posing as an answer to all your problems, like holy water or an old tonic. That lasted for a while (weed for me was like a thread running through the braid of booze, though at one time I would have been considered a major stoner. Forget what the movies tell you, there is nothing glamorous about it, it’s dirty and depressing). And they were consuming. I have finally found an activity which is the antitheses to those pursuits. I keep finding myself in the writing. 

Whatever I am doing is working for me, however self gratifying this is, though I’m not actively receiving any benefits from this blog, except for the pride of building a small body of work read by a small audience. I like to think the blog is my safe space. It has yet to reject a sentence. Yet I don’t really get a gauge of the nature of my writing because I don’t receive comments. Im not sure if something I’ve said has been hurtful or insulting, and maybe obscene, though I’ve wondered (which is probably proof of just how little readers I have. I guess I could write anything I want!). I’ve yet to be canceled, laugh out loud. 

I hope I can keep creating relatable and entertaining content for my readers. Really, I’d like a career out of it, but I don’t know if that is possible. Honestly, I’ve been unemployed for three years, and I’m ashamed to say that. I’ve been looking for work for a while, like over a year. It’s a drag. It’s probably why I have so much time to write, which is a blessing. And not being homeless: I thank my merciful roommate for that. I just reapplied at Starbucks, and I’m counting on an interview this time (I’m fantasizing about all the free coffee I could potentially drink).

Blog writing would not exist without a writer. It is a lifestyle. And it has not let me down.