Dear Me,
So today I thought, “Okay, I’m going to write that four
pages a day that some jackass or other told me down through the ages that it’s
necessary to write in order for me to be a ‘proper’ writer.” Only I spent that
time watching a really bad movie. But I was in the mood for Expendables 3, not the least of which
is, it’s fun to practice my lip-reading skills since I can’t watch a film like
that with the sound on (it’s all just lots of sound effects). Also, it was
free. Also, I didn’t feel like
writing.
I mean, come on, let’s face it. I’m over the hill. I’m in my
forties now. People just will be
enamored of youth. As if an accomplishment at youth is somehow worth more than one that is accomplished
during what is now officially my middle age. During that time when I don’t just
“get” to focus on myself and be really narcissistic, navel-gazing, and then people
will pat me on the head when I actually produce a piece of writing worth
reading because, hey! A 25-year old has insight! I mean, who gives a shit? The insight
of a 25-year old just doesn’t compare to a 45-year old. It doesn’t. Because,
experience + brains = wisdom.
And I have brains. I’m a genius. No, really. I took, no
wait, several, IQ tests, once when I was five years old and they wanted to be
certain—since I was only one of two East Asians, hey, Asians at all—in my
entire school, which at the time was K-8, and also, because of course! I’m East
Asian, I must be a genius, right? Well,
turns out I have genius in my family. I have a certifiable genius who now, in
his 50s, does nothing. He’s a shut-in. I used to, when I worked in a mental
hospital at the ripe and wise age of 19, minister to a 31-year old genius who
was a double PhD at the age of 21. One in philosophy and one in thermonuclear
physics. Really. They actually do that shit.
I know this other genius, well, I don’t know him personally, but a friend of mine is bff’s
with him, and he works at Cern. Yes, that one. And he probably got his PhD when
he was, oh, I don’t know, 12. He snorts coke in his spare time. No, he hasn’t
had a relationship. It would probably do wonders
for him, but men are notoriously emotionally retarded, on average, and he’s
probably worse as he’s all up in his head. So he snorts coke in his spare time
instead.
Anyway, I have brains. And I would drop these pearls of
wisdom, shit people would say, “Hey, you’re too young to know that!” and I’d
write it down and be all funny and stuff. And guess what? Who gives a shit?
Because I just couldn’t stick to it. I was too busy living, you know. Having flings. Traveling
by myself to what I thought were very far-flung locales and having grand
adventures. Just as a clue, that grand tour everyone used to write about is
totally irrelevant. The French? They might have good food but no one gives the
tiniest rat’s shit about anything they do. Policy. Military. Economically. Nada.
Italy. It’s even worse and let’s not talk about Spain, while we’re at it. There’s
a reason all those countries are part of the PIGGS, and the only, I mean the only reason France isn’t part of that is
that no one’s figured out a way to add that to the acronym and make it sound accusatory
and cool all at the same time. FPIGGS? I don’t think so.
So there you are. Has it been four pages yet? No? Only 1.
Well, after all. I’ve got this exceedingly exciting
piece to write. Something about a book no one will, wait, wait, now don’t
be negative. Something about a book I’m certain everyone will buy. It’ll outlive me. And molder in those university
libraries where people years from now will run their fingers over it, see its
title and think, “Well, hey, here’s a book I would never pick up under normal circumstances!” And then they do pick it up, after all, one has to
fight against a slovenly nature and appear learned. At least, in the university
one does.
Promptly upon returning home with it, said student will
throw it onto the couch, pick up a towel, don flip flops and head for the
closest beach.
At least, that’s what I
used to do.
No wonder I can’t write four pages. Clearly, no stick-to-it-iveness.
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