I've been losing my temper at the tiniest things and bitching and ranting and generally not being a happy bunny. My body aches, my head feels like a cock ring in a gangbang video and my tummy's decided to learn how to limbo.
As the Merovingian once said, 'cause and effect'. We know the effects, but what is the cause...?
Writers block.
Straight. Up. Writers. Block.
And I hate it.
I haven't been able to come up with a single decent idea in two weeks. Not one. Nothing is ticking in my head, I can hear the echo in my cranium, nothing fucking works.
And it's not just work - my guitar playing's taking a dip, my blog entries aren't the most inspired, I sit in front of my laptop and can't muster up the energy to write 'INT. BEDROOM - DAY', I can't write anything.
Any-fucking-thing.
Even this post is shiite. You'll probably skip it. In fact, I'd recommend it. There are links to trailers. They're much more fun.
Now, why would something like writers block piss me off so much? Why would the inability to use my creativity burden my brain and body and heart and soul so much?
Because it's all I have.
I'm not the fittest of people nor the most attractive. I'm not the most intelligent. I don't have many skills. Practically none whatsoever.
Except for ideas. Ideas and thoughts and creative manifestations of said ideas. I play in a band. I write screenplays and articles. I work in the creative department of an advertising agency.
Take all that away and I am a useless member of society.
And I can see the look of dissapointment in peoples faces. When I can't write an ad I can see my colleagues wondering whether I'm just wasting my time being a lazy jackass. When I come home late I can sense my parents' dismay at their sons choice of vocation, wondering whether it's all worth the late nights and tired eyes.
Is it worth it?
Last night I broke down on the way home. Just flat out broke down couldn't take another fucking millimeter of movement just wanna stop the engine and beat my brain senseless with a disposable lighter broke down in pieces fuckery. I haven't got any ideas. I haven't got a clue.
And it's bringing me deeper and deeper into the realm of Emo-boy in the process, being all introspective, filled with self doubt.
For the past two years I've been trying to pick myself up. I was sick of being the guy that teachers and employers said, "had potential". I was sick of just having potential. I wanted to turn that potential into something.
(Preferably cold hard cash and big booty women.)
And the inability to turn that potential into anything right now brings me to an all time low. It fucking kills. And I know that the best thing for me to do right now is take a day off and relax and empty my head so that it's fresh but I can't because I know that if I did take the day off I'd spend that whole day thinking about all the shit I should've been able to do.
I know my group heads gonna pop in later and ask if I have any ideas yet for the pitch that we're presenting tomorrow, and I know I haven't got a fucking clue. I know I've got a gig this Saturday and I know that I'm not on top form. I know I made myself a promise to shoot a fucking movie before the end of the year and I know that my mind is completely blank.
I know that if I don't make it through this I'm gonna hate myself for the rest of my life for giving up and breaking down when push comes to shove.
I also know that this post has gone far, far, far into the realms of whinny emoness and I don't care. My cat bit me this morning and my mom attacked me with religious books. Today, I have the right to be a little whinny bitch.
An hour later, after a meeting where everyone else discovers my complete lack of creative ideas...
Talk about fucked.
That was... bad. That was terrible. I haven't been in a situation like that since my last job when I finally snapped and dissapeared for 24 hours off the face of the earth. That was fucking abysmal.
I'm fucked. I'm well and truly fucked.
It's one thing to complain and bitch and worry and whine about not being able to do something, it's quite another to see the effect this causes on others who are dependant on said 'ability' to create.
Cause and effect. The Merovingian strikes again. Why can't Monica Bellucci strike again instead?
This is exactly how I imagined my blog would be like if it was written 2 years ago. A long flow of text in verdana font (I think) showing 2,499,129.24963 ways to write how much you feel sorry for yourself. It's fucking pathetic.
Interruption - told that to check my e-mail. After checking it...
This is brilliant! This is exactly what I need right now! An e-mail telling me I've done not one, but two mistakes on the copy of something I'm working on! Two! Two tremendous fuck-ups! AH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA...!
And dig this: I don't know how to fix them! Brilliant!! It's fucking brilliant! All I need now is a Myspace comment on the Y2k site telling me the recordings sound like the squeal of pigs in heat through a megaphone and a letter from the bank informing me that they're shutting down my account because I'm a cunt! Yeah! In fact, what about a call from the doctors while we're at it? A friendly call from the doctors telling me they did some checks and it looks like I'm gonna grow an extra dick. On my forehead. Fun for all the fucking family. Hey, you know what? Why not just round up every single person who thinks I'm a meandering fuck up and pay them to take turns to slice my flesh and fuck the wounds! If you're gonna do something, go all the fucking way!
Now this, THIS is a fucking rant! This is true bile, hatred, anger and all that other bollocks a la the dark side of the Force (but without the cool lightsaber and electro-zappy powers that make it all worthwhile).
I should've fucking seen this coming. Everything was going too well, too smoothly. Here's the drama, boys and girls!!! Boiling emotions and pent up frustrations!!! No amount of porn is going to cure this, I'm in for the fucking ride!
No comments:
Post a Comment