WRITE | POST | CREATE

Because right now life seems painfully long – but when you’re old, it’s probably not.

I felt like writing today.

I felt like writing because there’s really nothing better to do right now. I’m sitting here, inside a hotel room, at the beach, after a shower, tired from being outside, tired from being inside, flipping through the same old channels, scrolling through the same old newsfeed, regurgitating the same old recycled memes, drinking the same old soon-to-be recycled beer cans.

Like I said, there’s nothing better to do right now. And the question is, “Will there be something better to do later?” Or, “Will there be something better to do tomorrow?”

Oh god, what the fuck just came on TV. And why the fuck am I watching Paramount TV? I feel so bad for Anna Faris’ career. It deserved better than this. Okay, flipping through the guide again, gonna find something quote unquote better, brb.

Okay, I’m back. What a harrowing adventure, but I made it. Good ol’ Step Brothers to the rescue. I’ve only seen it 20 times, but good ol’ Step Brothers to the rescue. Only 20 times. Tried and true. Tired and true.

So where was I? Oh yeah, the throbbing pain of boring dullness. There’s really nothing better to do than write right now. Write. Right now. Write. Right.

Right?

It’s really all I could ever ask for, and really something any of us could do at any time. No, I’m not trying to encourage you to do it. I’m merely trying to explain the simplicity of it (condescending looks to the left).

Wake up. Go to work. Get home. Go to sleep. Rinse and repeat. Occasionally use conditioner every couple days ‘cause any more often hurts the hair and any less often you’re a wook. Rinse. Repeat.

Go to the bars. Go to the gym. Go to a coffee shop. Be trendy. Commit some sins. Go on adventures. Post on Instagram. Include “being adventurous” on your dating profile. Even worse, don’t have a dating profile, but instead already have kids. Be trendy. Commit a sin.

Listen to podcasts. Stuff I shouldn’t know. I don’t want to have Joe Rogan’s experience. But fuck it, this guest is good. Like real good. Like fuckin’ Dr. Phil? Like fuckin’ real good. Real good. Real, real, real good.

Talk about those podcasts in a trendy little speak easy near my trendy little neighborhood coffee shop. Fuck. Do it again. Fuck. Is this all there is?

Sweet, scrolling through the newsfeed again. Another adventure. Another grilled cheese festival. Man, this city is on the up-and-up. I should go to this. I should buy this. Even better, look at my friend’s city, look at their adventure. Even better – on the up-and-up. I should go there. Hyphens work wonders, btw.

Damn, John C. Reilly and Will Ferrell are getting their asses whooped.

Maybe it’s a good thing I’m typing this on my phone and not on a computer. Can maybe slow my brain down a little. I wonder how many words per minute I can type on my phone. 30 probably? 40? 420?

Nice.

God, Derek is such a cocksucker.

Probably shouldn’t say that during gay pride month.

So what was even the purpose of this? I don’t know. Fuck it. That’s the purpose. And I guess it really only merely simply proves there was no purpose. There is no purpose.

Bored, ignored, gonna wake up tomorrow, gonna lather, gonna rinse, and gonna repeat.

Got 40 more years of this. 69 if I’m lucky.

Nice.

40 more years till retirement. 40 more years of life. Make sure you don’t keep cycling through the same old same old, I guess, until you keep cycling through the same old same old and realize it’s too late.

Recently a friend brought up a good point. Not a particularly philosophical friend, but he brought up a good point.

You always think – or, at least, I always think – damn, if only I could go back five years, if only I had the knowledge then I do now. Do I really want to be saying that when I’m 33?

Damn, I’m close to 30.

Close to 30, US life expectancy decreasing, but supposedly the first person to live to 130 is alive today.

What a time to be alive.

Close to 30, and if I’m lucky, I’ve got 30-100 left. And regardless of how original and intelligent television and social media will grow and evolve (lol), I can always write. And I’ll always be able to write. And so can you. If you want. Tbh, do whatever the fuck you want to. Cause right now 30-100 seems painfully long, but when you’re 60-130, it’s probably not.

Right? Right. Right?

Write?

-2019