Chapter 1 – Writing’s Like Takin a Shit
For me, writing’s a lot like takin a shit. It’s not somethin I really like doin, but it’s somethin that’s just gotta get done, ya know what I mean? Sometimes I pinch ‘em off clean and it’s not a big deal, but more often than not it’s a big fuckin’ mess. And sometimes I’m just not in the mood to take a shit and deal with cleanin up said mess and I ignore the urge to go and continue on with my day. The urge passes, I keep takin care of everything I need to take care of in the world that surrounds me and I feel fine…for now. But sooner or later it’s all gotta come out. Ya see, if I don’t get this shit outta me, I get backed-up. I get constipated. I start to feel sick. It gets so bad that I can’t think straight, I can’t concentrate on what I’m doin, I don’t look forward to anything, and I feel nothing but impending doom.
And so here I am once again. I’ve avoided comin here for as long as humanly possible because I can feel it’s gonna be a big messy one. Here I am face-to-face with a blank text document on the computer screen one year after the death of my father, as emotionally constipated as can be, feelin like I’m ready to fucking explode. The blinking cursor on the top-left margin of the page beckons me to unload and I know it’s the only thing that can save me, but I’m scared. I’m afraid of how much it’s gonna hurt to push this shit out, but I know it must be done. With a sigh of exasperation, I unbuckle the belt to my psyche and drop my pants to the floor. I pop a squat and let the verbal diarrhea rip into this toilet of a ten-year-old laptop on which I still type.