FUCK!
It really is such a struggle. Maintaining... keeping up with this
blog. How does Herring do it... a post every day FOR OVER TEN
YEARS!!? The man must be half insane. Half insane, and half of the
most grounded, sane type of person that exists in our world.
I'm telling myself, now and for the next however many years, that the reason he's able to keep up that blog every day, is because he's forty-something years old and doesn't live the same lifestyle as me. But honestly, he's a comic too... I'm sure he knows about beers in the night and late afternoon hangovers piercing through the will to live... I'm sure he knows about the lack of motivation that comes in cycles coupled with thrilling, manic spurts of insane energy... I'm sure he knows about the creeping, questioning uncertainty, every day, every day, “do I really want to do this?” But he keeps going. Ten years, not a single chink in the armour.
Maybe I need to read more of his posts, maybe they aren't as emotionally involved as mine, I know that he tries to tell a story from the day before, rather than succumbing to the narcissistic urge to endlessly introspect – narcissistic, and also oh-so-tiring.
I just seem to run out of juice. What could I have written about yesterday that would have been worthwhile and maybe turned into a 600-word story? Well, I caught a cab home with SCumming – mine and Luka's new nickname for new comic Simon Cumming, although I personally prefer Scummers, we'll see how it goes – that was eventful. The cab, not the words in between the hyphens... GOOD GOD LOOK HOW I SIDETRACK MYSELF. There really is no hope.
I need to go to the toilet now, as is common with the minutes just after waking up... I had some wack dreams last night... dreams in which my brother owned a pistol and was arrested for shooting someone on a soccer pitch. I had to defend him from the investigations, led by Richie. I bought a phone from a service station and changed my voice to something else so that I could pretend to be someone with information – a witness or something. Real family shit. Insanity, my brother would never shoot anyone.
Dreams last night, dreams today, this world is an ever-evolving blur in front of my eyes.
Peace, Taco.
I'm telling myself, now and for the next however many years, that the reason he's able to keep up that blog every day, is because he's forty-something years old and doesn't live the same lifestyle as me. But honestly, he's a comic too... I'm sure he knows about beers in the night and late afternoon hangovers piercing through the will to live... I'm sure he knows about the lack of motivation that comes in cycles coupled with thrilling, manic spurts of insane energy... I'm sure he knows about the creeping, questioning uncertainty, every day, every day, “do I really want to do this?” But he keeps going. Ten years, not a single chink in the armour.
Maybe I need to read more of his posts, maybe they aren't as emotionally involved as mine, I know that he tries to tell a story from the day before, rather than succumbing to the narcissistic urge to endlessly introspect – narcissistic, and also oh-so-tiring.
I just seem to run out of juice. What could I have written about yesterday that would have been worthwhile and maybe turned into a 600-word story? Well, I caught a cab home with SCumming – mine and Luka's new nickname for new comic Simon Cumming, although I personally prefer Scummers, we'll see how it goes – that was eventful. The cab, not the words in between the hyphens... GOOD GOD LOOK HOW I SIDETRACK MYSELF. There really is no hope.
I need to go to the toilet now, as is common with the minutes just after waking up... I had some wack dreams last night... dreams in which my brother owned a pistol and was arrested for shooting someone on a soccer pitch. I had to defend him from the investigations, led by Richie. I bought a phone from a service station and changed my voice to something else so that I could pretend to be someone with information – a witness or something. Real family shit. Insanity, my brother would never shoot anyone.
Dreams last night, dreams today, this world is an ever-evolving blur in front of my eyes.
Peace, Taco.
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