So occasionally, I write bad poetry. Which I then force upon the unfortunate public by screaming it loudly at passing traffic. Actually, due to my complete lack of confidence in myself, I hide it a cheap journal made from recycled paper. Cause if I’m a waste of space, oxygen, and other resources, I’ll try to use only three-fifths the resources of a normal, useful member of society. But the weird thing is, now I can’t write anything. To write, I seem to need to be in a specific range of misery and turmoil. Too much happiness and joy makes me use phrases about kitty cats playing with balls of twine, and not in any sort of sarcastic or ironic way. Too much intensity to my brooding makes me impotent as a writer. My thoughts are single words, often the type used by pirates, like Arrghhh!, Hoy!, and Egad! (okay, that’s not that piratey). And yes, my spell and grammar checkers hate me.
The only good thing about this sort of internal conflict is that it is supposed to fuel creative inspiration. At least if I’m miserable and frustrated, I can delight in that I can allow my pain to spread and live longer than me (according to a recent fortune teller, I am due to be killed in 2031, probably by angry and overworked grammar and spell checkers which gain sentience and attack their worst tormentors). I think this is stealing away even my ability to write down and document these horrible emotions. So, in the upcoming weeks, I will probably be unable to form simple sentences, and will be devolving towards complete neanderthalism. Might as well practice my grunting now. Urrghh. Grunt. Arrr.
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