So he gave me this notebook as Valentine’s day gift, thinking it will help me write. I’d have preferred to receive flowers. It doesn’t make me want to write. It just makes me feel guilty for not writing more. It would just lie there days on end, looking all colorful, along with his red-dotted friend and stare at me saying: “write inside of me, use me!”.
Writing isn’t something so easy for me. I’m most scared about sounding banal. I had had some friends throughout my life that would write shit and then expect me to comment on it but basically pet their ego. But it was shit. And they were my friends. So I would feel guilty to tell them it was shit. I would also feel guilty not telling them so. I have a complex relationship with telling the honest truth. The reality is that some people just need to hear it but other just can’t handle it. One never knows really in advance. Plus, one’s is someone else’s gold (as someone’s grandma would say) so who am I to judge?
Anyways, truth-telling is a complex decision tree that my not-so-developed emotional intelligence skills have not equipped me to solve.
One thing I know for sure is that being outside and seeing people is the best kind of inspiration. So I head over to the worst kind of place for expressing originality: Starbucks. In NYC, I’ve always hated it with passion (from the obvious reasons) but here in Brazil, it gives me a certain sense of comfort. It must be the “light and cozy” atmosphere. Maybe it is this thing called longing for home (America??!!).
Normally, I face 2 problems when I leave home: bathrooms (need to use those every 30 mins — I must have the tiniest bladder in the world) and Mosquitos. The former one is the worst. Mosquitos love me to oblivion. Every excursion turns into an ankle-itching nightmare. Repellent certainly helps but of course I always remember I should have put it one once it is too late and am already stuck in itching-hell. Fucking Mosquitos.These two factors making the writing inspiration window more limited.
There are many other reasons too: Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, CNN, huffington post, buzzfeed, skype, whatsapp and every other appcrack I’ve gotten hooked to. I am staring to sound like a pre-teen version of Bukowski. I guess I should write now about quitting my job (or trying to get myself quitted) being that sleeping with crack whores is kind of out of the question and all.
I’ve also attempted becoming an artist. I think that one is a no go as well (evidence below – I personally think it came out as something between a whale and a vagina but everyone is entitled to an opinion) Plus, I also realized that writing on paper is highly impractical because I had to spend more time typing all this shit (no one’s gold) once I finished scribbling.