If I were a director of movies I would be the most affordable actor around

   
Photo on 4-15-14 at 10.31 PM

I gotta be honest, I feel completely unmotivated to write anything. See, even then I censored myself. I initially typed ‘I just feel completely unmotivated’ but cut out the ‘just’ as soon as I entered it. It seemed like it’d put off anyone who might be (reluctantly) reading this, holding onto the knowledge that at any point they could stop and open themselves up again to the opportunities of the internet, which are overwhelmingly infinite to the point where we often commit ourselves to nothing at all, just a scrolling through of opportunities we don’t take for fear that we might miss out on something better, browsing headlines to articles we don’t read, window-shopping the world but never seeing its contents. It scares me as a writer.

So I’d rather do something that feels writerly, rather than write. Watch a Herzog documentary or read a long-form interview about a writer. Something they don’t tell you is that the lives of writers are often more interesting than the books they write. This isn’t because writers are inherently interesting people—in fact I’d say they’re among the more banal—but pretty much any person’s life narrated over hundreds of pages is more interesting than whatever shit they decide to throw away into the ears of others.

I took the subway to work this morning and thought about how I should get an MFA in graphic design, and it wasn’t until I arrived at work that I realized I’d have to get an entire bachelor’s degree before that was even an option.

Another thing that happened on the subway–a few b-boys boarded with a stereo and said ‘WHAT TIME IS IT?’, to which they also replied, somewhat unfairly, ‘IT’S GO TIME.’  It was loud and too early in the morning. The train itself was hot and muggy and smelled too much like people.

It’s easy, though, to get up and walk between cars to the next one. But I sat there, sweaty, jarred, annoyed with the situation, until it was my stop. Why? Because the next car over might be worse.

A lot of things are like that.

So basically (I’m aware now that I began the second paragraph with ‘so’) I feel super-tired all the time. Thursdays are my Saturdays and Fridays are my Sundays. Work kills a part of me, and it’s the part that jumps on opportunities like this one, to write and be read.

Instead, this is what I’ve got for you, and you really don’t get much of anything. You probably should have kept scrolling. Sorry for not saying that earlier on.