A Problem (A Small One)
Somewhere people have real problems.
Not anywhere close to here, mind you. No, people round here don’t know real problems, can’t comprehend them.
This is a problem.
I include myself, of course. Being a white American male of the upper-middle class, I am coddled. I don’t have AIDS, my free will is accepted and encouraged, and I am certainly not about to go hungry.
So like any teenagers hell bent on rocking out like I mean it, I fuck shit up, pretty regularly. Job’s lose their luster roughly two weeks in, I crash cars, I crash relationships, friendships, most ships, and thank god for it.
Potential, now that’s the worst word. Want to see a downward spiral? Mention my goddamn potential. What does that mean? “I have faith that someday you will be good, but clearly not right now.”
Listen, I know. I know that I do nothing. I know that my idea of the perfect day includes tons of food, tons of escapism, and very little clothing, and even then, I’ll be miserable by the end of it, so you tell me, what the fuck am I supposed to do?
And they’ll say write, so here I am writing, but I suppose this is for me, I mean it is, it’s not for the ten people that will read it (although I hang on your every hesitant breath, you whores of my love) but that means that this, these little angsty rants are my hobby and what the fuck is a hobby?
So this is my problem, you see. Not tsunamis and tornadoes and earthquakes, no, no, no, never real problems, not in this life, not in Roswell fucking Georgia where the grass is leftover from Easter and their are wine clubs and book clubs and clubs where platinum blonde tits gawk at a bag of glowing neon vibrators and softcore porno.
Cunts.
I mean, isn’t this what those people with problems aspire to? Am I really this ungrateful that I can’t appreciate what I have? Fuck, people drown trying to achieve what I’m forcefed! Hah, forcefed. I sound like I put up a fight. Have you seen my tits? I’ve never been forced to eat anything.
I write tonight because I had a problem, and I felt that selfish of me. I was looking at old papers; things I wrote years and years ago, and my God, they’re terrible. And I know in years, I’ll look back at these cackles, these seagull shouts on a gray and dead beach, and laugh at my ludicrousy to use lines like “seagull shouts on a gray and dead beach”.
This upsets the shit out of me!
If this is my passion, and my passion is fruitless, not in terms of monetary or critical success, but in terms of providing anything worthwhile in my short stay here, then should I compromise it?
I mean, there are other passions to be had, surely some I could get behind, even! But as of right now I have two jobs, more friends than most, gobs of uncompromising, forever endearing love, and my greatest pleasure and relief comes from hollering in empty hallways. “Hear me! I have things to say!” and all I receive are echos, or faint whispers of other losers in other hallways.
That’s all these things are. Desperate cries for attention. Maybe if we all just shutup then we could get what we are looking for.
