Work Distractions

An Island Life

I had an idea awhile ago; I should try and write a book. I’ve always loved them, and I think I have a halfway decent story to tell, and I think I’m a decent enough writer to make something passable.

It’s hard though. I didn’t realize how hard it would be, which sounds like such a stupid thing to say. I need to change a few names and details to keep from getting in legal trouble, because the book is about 4 summers of my life on Frye Island, and I was kind of a little shit back then.

I’m about 4 pages in, and already I’m struggling. I’m not crazy enough to think that I’ll be able to write a 200-page book in a couple days, and even then, I’m not sure it’s going to be a story worth telling. I’m struggling to place all of the stories of my life into a palatable form that other people will read, and that won’t piss off the people involved in the story. Maybe I’ll just call it fiction and add enough wild shit that nobody will notice.

I love making things, and I want to create in different mediums, so maybe this book will be something great, maybe it will be abandoned in the pursuit of another medium, but I can’t say for sure right now. One thing’s for sure: if this pans out, you’ll all be inundated with my half-assed attempts to market it and see if people like it.

Musical Motivation: A Story of Productivity

Today was a good day, I actually finished everything I wanted to get done. Usually, I only get to two or three things on my To-Do List, and get distracted and end up doing something completely different. What changed? That’s simple: music choice and medication.

I woke up at 7:30, which wasn’t planned, but super useful because I forgot to take the trash bins out, and I’m not too fond of letting this week’s trash become next week’s partially-decomposed sludge. After rushing outside in my sweatpants, I tried to go back to sleep, because why not, it’s my day off, I deserve to get some beauty rest. I was unsuccessful. 8:30 rolls around, and my Adderall is starting to kick in, so all hopes of sleep fly out the window.

I had no idea what I wanted to do today, so I do my usual job search, typing in “marketing internships” and “content writer” into Glassdoor, and applied to every job I think I could do. Now, usually, I get about 4 pages into the suggested jobs before getting distracted. Not today. I went into a groove, which was helped by the groovy tunes I had in the background (Mississippi Mud by Black Blood & the Chocolate Pickles), and next thing I knew, I was on page 36, and had applied to more than 20 jobs.

Now, I can tell the difference between “hyper-focus productive” and “Medicated productive”, and this wasn’t either, I think this might be the start of something new for me, I might not be a slacker anymore. I hope this continues, and I hope I continue to crush this job search, because if there’s anything that I’ve learned over these last 5 years, it’s that I never want to work fast-food again, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Now, this post is called “Musical Motivation” for a reason: I’ve been switching up my music choices, and I think it’s actually doing things other than broadening my sonic horizons, I think it’s actually improving my mood and how I think about things. Usually, I listen to super depressing music, which probably isn’t good for me, but it feels incredible to listen to someone who understands how you feel, and connects with that. My favorite time to listen to music is that time of night between 12am and 2am, I think there’s something about that time that brings out a different side of music, especially sad music. I think my late-night listening, mixed with sleep deprivation, has taken me off my A-game, but I think I’ve found a great replacement for it: morning music.

Now, I’m terrible at getting up in the morning, I usually sit in bed until I absolutely have to get up, or if I have to go to the bathroom, but today, I was wide awake, and had nothing better to do than get things done. I think that if I go to bed early, and wake up early, not only will I get better sleep, I’ll get better results from my job hunt, my gym time, and my relaxation time, because what could be better than completing all your To-Do’s for the day at noon?

Artistic Excellence

What is art? Well, that answer will be very different depending on who you ask. To me, art is anything that makes someone feel something. I know, it’s a super broad definition, but I think that it needs to be broad in order to cover all creative mediums. Art isn’t just some asshole throwing paint droplets on a canvas, it’s the emotion the artist embedded in the piece, combined with the reception that the piece receives. Now, because I consider what I do art, I have to acknowledge that other people may have differing opinions on my work. This is where I struggle.

I’m super selfish when it comes to art: I don’t make things for other people, I make things because it helps me keep some semblance of sanity. Each medium that I make things in has its own purposes and flaws, but it really comes down to how I feel at a particular moment in time. I honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck what you think about my content, I’m more interested in seeing where you would build upon what I’ve created, and if you can correct my sometimes-spotty grammar: even better. When I look at other people’s art, I immediately blast off into space, creating a narrative based on how the piece strikes me, and use that feeling to help make my own stuff.

I try not to be wild pretentious when it comes to art, I know I don’t always achieve this goal, but fuck you, it’s a process, I’ll get there eventually. I used to be obsessed with this “tortured genius” idea, but the more I learn about the world, the dumber I realize I am, and the more I look back at myself and realize I was a huge douchebag. I used to think that only miserable people could make good art, but now I realize that being functional and happy while maintaining creativity is the more impressive feat. I respect people like Charles Dickens, Curren$y, Mac Miller, Van Gogh, David Ogilvy, and pre-MAGA Kanye West. They are prolific artists, people obsessed with the creative process, always working, no matter what it does to their mental health (with the exception of Curren$y, who seems like he’s living his best life right now). I feel the same way, but with a thousandth of the creative potential. Due to a lovely neurological disorder, I have a pretty rocky relationship with sanity, so I do my best to be as clear and concise as possible, even when my brain is firing off signals in every direction.

I may be nuts, but if I’m properly motivated, I will give 200% effort in achieving my goals. It might strain my relationships, ruin my physical and mental well-being, and my overall quality of life, but if I want to do something, and I have the ability to do so, I will devote every fabric of my being to achieving my goals. The only issue is that sometimes my goals are fucking stupid, and shouldn’t be pursued. For instance, I can say with complete certainty that I spent more time and effort getting the Fall Camo for the M21 sniper rifle in Modern Warfare 2 than I did getting a 3.7 GPA in college. Maybe I’m actually smart, but more likely, this country has devalued education to the point where grades don’t matter, and that I’m just average. I can snipe the fuck out of you in a video game though, so it’s a bit of a win-win.

Jon Hamm: More Than Just Don Draper

Can we talk about how good an actor Jon Hamm is? I’m a huge Mad Men fan, so I might be a little biased.

Due to my recent unemployment career transition, I’ve had some time on my hands. I have mostly spent this time staring at walls, trying to muster the energy to get out of bed, and when I can’t, I turn to movies and TV to help me escape that 9×5 prison. This has led me to discover Jon Hamm’s acting chops.

He was an incredible Don Draper: silent, brooding, brilliantly troubled, but there were moments that showed that Jon Hamm had actual range. If you remember Season 6’s “The Crash” (better known as “that episode where SCDP gets amphetamine shots and goes on a manic creative bender”), you can see that Jon Hamm is an incredible comedic presence too.

Fast-forward to 2 weeks ago: I mustered the energy to drag myself downstairs to the family room, where I blew through On-Demand movies for 9 hours before giving up and staring at a blank screen for another 3. It was during this time where I discovered the movie Tag.

Tag is based off of the true story of a group of friends that gets together to play tag one month a year. It’s a star-studded ensemble cast of talented comedic actors and actresses, and Jon Hamm. I was a little high, which may have influenced my decision, but in the end, Tag is a heartwarming film about adult friendship, childhood promises, and seeing Jake Johnson get super baked with Jason Sudeikis.

In the film, Jon Hamm is an insurance executive, so your first image of him is pure Draper:  tailored suit, giant corner office, being interviewed by the Wall Street Journal for being awesome at what he does. This is quickly subverted by Jason Sudeikis jumping out of a trashcan to try and tag him, causing him to dip out of the interview to run screaming through the halls of his agency. Don Draper would be ashamed of his outward expression of any emotion not quelled by cheap whiskey. The movie goes on to establish him as an awkward child who hasn’t gotten over his childhood crush, which is a nice change from Mr. “I like to cheat on my gorgeous wife” Draper, and Mr. “Let’s have a shootout with the police” Buddy from Baby Driver. I’d get more into how much Jon Hamm kills it in Baby Driver, but I want to keep this relatively short.  Now, Tag isn’t the best movie in the world, it’s super cheesy and stupid at times, but like pretty much every Jason Sudeikis movie, it’s just dumb fun. My advice- eat an edible, crack open a couple beers, and let this movie wash over you. It also stars Rashida Jones and Isla Fischer, so if you don’t like the comedic stylings of Jon Hamm, Jake Johnson, Jeremy Renner, and Jason Sudeikis, you can always watch them absolutely crush this film.

Tears of a Clown

It’s kind of wild to watch yourself lose control. It’s like being trapped in a sound-proof glass box while someone else controls your body; you see yourself say and do all these things that you hate, and no matter how hard you punch and kick and yell at the box, you can’t break out of it and stop yourself.

I haven’t worn pants since Sunday. I haven’t eaten much, and I definitely haven’t gone outside. Sometimes I don’t do anything but sit in bed and stare at the wall, hoping that I’ll fall asleep, and that today will be over.

It’s getting worse. Usually I can fight it off, but I’m getting tired now. I know that I should stop drinking, that I should find a job, that I should work out like I used to, that I should reach out to my friends and see if they’re okay, even if I’m not. I know I should do all of these things, but I can’t for some reason. It’s like my car is out of gas, and the nearest gas station is 20 miles away, and I’ve got to crawl there.

I really just want to pretend I’m okay. My mom told me the other day that she feels pain when I’m hurt, even from small things. I don’t have the heart to hurt her by telling her how miserable I am. My parents are amazing, they’ve given me every advantage they could, they’ve loved me even though I’ve been a piece of shit, and they deserve to live the rest of their lives in happiness.

I want to be better. I want to make my family and friends proud, but I don’t know if I can. My friends haven’t noticed that I’m slowly losing my mind, but I’ve worked very hard to keep it that way. I don’t want them to worry about me, and I definitely don’t want them to tell my parents, there’s already enough pain in the world today, I don’t want to add any more to it.

Harvesting Happiness

I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately, so I haven’t writing too much. I haven’t been doing much of anything lately; my job is indefinitely postponed, I’m worried that if I go outside, I’ll kill my whole family, I feel like a real-life Peter Pan, and I don’t know what to do about any of it.

There’s just so much sadness in the world right now, I can see it in the air the rare times that I go outside. People are scared, uncertain of what the future holds, and angry that it’s gotten to this point. I’ve had to fight for those fleeting milliseconds of happiness, but now, after every attempt to make life tolerable, I’ve come to the conclusion that it just isn’t enough. 

So many people I talk to say that happiness is a feeling, something that you can’t control. I think that’s bullshit.  I keep a note in my phone of everything that makes me happy, and every time I feel empty and numb, I look at that list and try to imagine the things that make me happy. It’s not a complex list, there are things like “filling your gas tank all the way up” or “finding new music” that don’t take much to achieve, but still briefly help me feel like a real person for a moment or two, and that’s so important these days. 

I’m the last person you should listen to for advice, but in this one instance, I think I’m on to something. Try it out: list the things that make you happy, and whenever you feel worthless and devoid of feeling, check that list out, it might help, it might not; I don’t know, I’m not a fucking psychologist.  

Fuck Being Famous Pt.2

As I’ve said before: FUCK BEING FAMOUS. It really does sound like the worst thing ever. Look at all these famous people who have ruined their lives trying to maintain their lifestyles. I could never do that, I’m not built for that type of shit, I just want to create and be left alone.

I’m a huge Mac Miller fan, and that might be why I hate the idea of being famous. He was an artist that wasn’t afraid to show who he was, and let his fans into his inner thoughts and feelings. It’s widely-known that Mac hated the attention that being famous put on him, Macadelic was created from the fallout of that legendary 1.0 review from Pitchfork. I’m not that confident, I’m kind of a piece of shit sometimes, so why would I want everyone and their mother to see how I act in private?

Sure, being famous has its perks; I’d love to be able to grab lunch with my favorite artists because of who I am, but it doesn’t seem like a healthy lifestyle. I already deal with the debauchery of having more money than I need, so what good would come from having access to the best comforts and drugs ever created? If I were some rich trust-fund douche-bag, I’d be dead by now, either from an overdose, or by sticking a shotgun in my mouth because I realized how little my life matters in the scheme of things, as well as how little I deserve the things I’d been given. 

My personality type isn’t suited for a life of high visibility: I can maybe deal with people an hour or two, tops, a day. If I had to answer the same basic bitch questions day in and day out, I’d end up on TMZ for beating the brakes off of some lowly journalist, and that’s not a good look. Additionally, I’ve kind of been a bit of a shithead in my life, so if people shared some texts I’ve sent while drunk at the bar, I’m definitely getting canceled.  Calling your friend “Jew Rogan”  because he’s bald, Jewish, and loves the Joe Rogan Podcast probably doesn’t look too good if he isn’t there to confirm that he thought that shit was hilarious. I don’t get the whole “cancel culture” anyway, I think people should own up to the shitty things they do, but to think that these people can’t grow from these issues is super fucking dumb, and is insulting to the hard work it takes for someone to actually better themselves. 

Another reason I would hate to be famous would be the pressure. I’m not a genius, I’m not funny enough to get famous off of my sense of humor, I’m definitely not handsome enough to get away with all the stupid shit I say, so if I were to get famous, it’d probably be from some wild Tweet, or because I’ve finally gotten good enough at writing for someone important to give a shit. Usually, I thrive under pressure, and use it as a catalyst to kick-start my creative juices, but I feel like at a certain level, when your Twitter account is inundated with thousands of requests to create more and more content, I’d feel like I’m obligated to serve my fans, since they were the ones responsible for making me famous. I can’t say for sure, since I’ve obviously never been famous, but at this point in my life, I’d fucking hate it, and that hate would be incredibly obvious in my writing, and since I’m a terrible liar, I don’t think I could hide it. 

A Letter To High School Me

Hey Dipshit,

It’s you, 8 years in the future, and I’ve gotta say: you suck, and I’m glad I’m not you anymore. You had all of the opportunities in the world, but you squandered them because you thought smoking weed before practice made you cool. It didn’t. You had all the time in the world to figure yourself out and decide what you wanted out of life, and what did you do? You got stoned and played Fallout 3 for 600 hours instead of learning how to be a person. You have ruined so many things for us; we could’ve done something worthwhile, but you just HAD to be cool, you just HAD to convince other people that you knew what you were doing, and you don’t.

I want to say that things got better, but I’m pretty sure you know that’s bullshit. You always had to convince people that you were okay, and you aren’t, and literally everyone can see that you’re not okay, so stop joking around all the time to try and hide the fact that your miserable. It only gets worse.

I found our senior yearbook, and just, wow. You really blew something special because you weren’t satisfied with what you had. That girl is waaaaaaaaaaay better off without you, you should’ve noticed that nerdy artsy girl that was always into you, she would be perfect for you, but you’re still too busy being a shallow prick to realize that. Why are you the way that you are? Why do you wear band shirts for bands you don’t listen to? Why do you think that goatee looks good? Why do you think you can get away with not studying or doing any homework? You’ve gotten lucky your whole life, and you haven’t done anything to deserve any of the things you’ve been given.

Now, you’re not all bad. I genuinely think you have a bigger heart than I do. You definitely are better at talking to people than I am, you have a much less jaded view of the world, and you would give the shirt off your back for the people you care about. Enjoy it while it lasts, along with your hairline, your iPod touch, and your faith in humanity. You lose them all in 2 years.

Begrudgingly,

You.

Purgatory

I feel like I’m in purgatory. I’m not advancing in life, I’m in the same place doing the same things with the same people. I feel like there has to be something I need to do, something I missed that will let me leave this place.

I’ve been slowly descending into exile, I don’t like doing things anymore, I spent the whole day just watching TV and existing. I’ve barely eaten, but I’m not even hungry. I don’t sleep too well anyway, so each day just keeps getting longer and longer.

I feel like I’m stuck in the tutorial level in life, and all the work I’ve done won’t translate anywhere else. My parents have gone to Maine for the month, so I can pretend I’m a real adult for awhile. It’s not much, I’d be dumb to think that I’ll have a house like this with the cool gadgets my parents worked their lives to afford, but in the meantime, it’s better than nothing. I wonder what I need to do in order to get my shit together and get out of this place, I’m tired of being here, I don’t know how much longer I can stay in this little town without permanently hindering my progress. I don’t want to be one of those people who looks back on their life and regrets never leaving. It’s hard to keep pushing through when the whole world feels like it’s crashing down on you, the only thing that keeps me going is that faint hope that things will be better someday. I hope I’m right, but I also know that I’m usually not.

I’m Not Okay

I usually feel super awkward talking about my feelings on here, but now I think I’m confident enough to speak my truth: I’m not doing well.

I was always going to be weird: you can’t just make a socially awkward only-child introvert and shelter the fuck out of them, and not get a really fucked up psuedo-adult as a result. The more I learn about the world, the less I want to be a part of it.

I’m going to die. It’s inevitable. The fucked up part is that I know how I’m going to die. I had a dream long ago where I slowly alienated the people who cared about me, until I drank myself to death. I’m terrified that it might be an accurate depiction.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope that I get to enjoy my life, but I don’t think that will be the case. I just want to be happy when I go out.

The Death of an Empire

What the fuck are we doing? Has everyone lost their goddamn mind? What in the hell is wrong with you people? We have people killing eachother over the right to protest, we have a president who should’ve been sent off to pasture years ago, and we have a percentage of the country that just wants to see the world burn.

I want to believe that we’re better than this, I want to believe that we’re still the greatest country on Earth. It’s kind of like being a Browns fan: you see their potential, but they keep fucking it up.

That picture of Minneapolis burning is iconic, it should be someone’s album cover, it speaks to everything that needs to be said right now. I’m not a good mouthpiece for change, I have no idea what I’m doing with my life, so don’t make me delve too deep into the stupid shit I say to give me that momentary serotonin hit that keeps me going.

We Are Immortal

I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy; why people do the things they do to ensure they are remembered. I think I’ve figured it out. Most of the things people do after a certain age are to prolong the amount of time that people talk about them after they’re gone. I know that as long as the Internet is around, I’ll still be around, even if I’m dead. Somebody will find these posts, read them, and hopefully talk about it with others, keeping my spirit alive long after I’m gone.

You hear stories about people hoarding absurd amounts of wealth that they could never spend in a hundred lifetimes, I get that it makes people mad, but these people don’t care what you think, they just want to be remembered for working hard enough that entire generations of their family can live comfortably. Sure, the way they get their money might not be the most noble, but the intent has to mean something. I think artists are the same way, except instead of leaving their children a shit-ton of money that will end up making them spoiled assholes, artists leave their impression on the world by showing others how they see it.

Think about Picasso: there isn’t a person alive who hasn’t at least heard his name. He is immortal, even though he died hundreds of years ago. It would be an honor to be remembered for that long after I died, although I may be getting ahead of myself a bit.