At this moment exactly twenty four years ago a woman, barely an adult herself, lay on a surgical table in a hospital on a cold night in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Exactly twenty four years ago a man waited nervously as his wife’s flesh was pierced by scalpel, delivering to him his firstborn son. I often wonder the thoughts that went through his mind as he waited for the life he and his love had created. I wonder where he saw his son on his twenty fourth birthday, what kind of a man would he be? Would he be just? Would he be a sinner? Would he be strong? Would he even be alive?
I don’t really know what to say. To be honest I wrote that paragraph above, got up to get a glass of wine and didn’t know what to say when I sat back down. I must have started fifteen different sentences. What am I supposed to talk about? I feel like I am obligated to say something, I mean isn’t it normal to remind people of one’s birthday in some sick attempt to get people to suddenly care about you for a second or so? I thought about writing about the hard times of the past year and I thought the prospect of this new year. I also thought about how incredibly boring that was to write about, let alone read. I thought about writing a lot of shit, but when I sat down to write it nothing happened. Fingers moved, words appeared but what I was trying to say was not what I was reading.
I have absolutely no fucking idea what is going to happen this year, just the same as anyone, but I have this burning feeling in me telling me that this time it’s do or die. I’m still feeling obligated, staring at the ceiling, wondering what to say. I have mastered the art of self pep talks to the point where I could be a motivational speaker for neurotics I don’t have anything to say though. It’s strange, every year at this time for as long as I remember I had a chat with myself about becoming the man I grew up wanting to be. Unfortunately I don’t have memories from that age so I don’t necessarily remember what I wanted to grow up to be.
This is an absolutely terrible post, isn't it? This is the epitome of bad writing...hey...I'm sorry. Doesn’t it read like is has been forced? That’s fucking pretty damn annoying. In fact you know what else is pretty damn annoying? I am. Seriously, do you ever ask yourself, “Why the fuck am I reading this crap?” Hey, its ok, sometimes I do too. It’s ok…hey…we’re still cool. I know…I know it’s alright. Really I don’t even know what the fuck I’m writing anymore, I just read the last few sentences and thought, “I. Am. Retarded.” I know I was trying to make a point when I started writing this but I completely forgot what that point was, and hey I’ll tell you I think I remember it being a pretty damn good one. However, like I said, this point we speak of is completely fucking evasive. Right. I think the point that I was trying to make was that all I want for christmas…wow…I mean my birthday is not forcing my fucking writing.
You know, I was going to post this just now but I got up to get another glass of wine before doing so, and in a moment of clarity, while staring at an old LBJ speech on public television, I decided that I rather like sitting here and reading I mean writing complete utter nonsense. Sometimes I wish that I had a device that was hooked into my brain, maybe through my ear or some shit that recorded some of my thoughts. Not all of them, you know because I think about a lot of stupid shit, like Brett Favre and guns and how Microsoft Word puts the squiggly red line under Favre to tell me that I misspelled it. Hey fucking Bill Gates, I didn’t misspell it you bastard, that’s how it is…bastard. You know the more I think about it I really do enjoy my birthday. This is my day to be a complete fucking moron and people are totally cool with it. It’s almost like some fucking hypnotizing effect, I can do the stupidest shit and people will just say, “It’s his birthday, man.” I think I remember hearing that once before bonging a 16oz Solo cup full of vodka once. Although that might not even be my memory, I can’t remember.
Ok so the point that I’m trying to get at is that I can’t believe you are still reading this, just about as much as I can’t believe I’m still writing this, just about as much as I cant believe I’m just going to post this with out reading it, just about as much as I can’t believe how neurotic I am about writing, just about as much as I can’t believe how many times I just said “just about as much” in this terribly onrunning sentence.
I should probably go to bed.
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