Pop Quiz
Damn me for not reading David Foster Wallace sooner. I don’t want to say I was hooked from the first sentence, because my mind is a Bell Chart….the second sentence gave me the 95% certainty I was looking for. I haven’t written dickhole (aside from just there, a few seconds ago (as if I were meaning the actual word “dickhole” and not a colloquialism for none—which you got the first time, I hope)) in the last 3 years. I am wanting to change this, and I have wanted to change this for 3 years. DFW’s short stories have been, in the last two weeks, a realization that you can write whatever the fuck you want. The man was very, very good at what he did. He never didn’t write for three straight years; this is sort of not what I want to get to, though.
The last year, specifically, I’ve moved once—but only across town; I have been in love with the same girl for the complete, traditional Western calendar year; I’ve continued my efforts to decay my professional career despite little hope for a job change; I’ve visited Las Vegas twice (or once, depending on how well we know each other); I have blogged (safe estimate) 3 times; I’ve pared my musical tastes down to a few staples that I rotate every few weeks; I’ve started homebrewing my own beer, which also relates to my growing interest in different brews and tastes—especially dark beers, IPAs and Scotch Ales, all of which I wouldn’t have touched a few years ago; I’ve made friends outside of work in this town, while not seeing even one friend from college or earlier. Compared to the year or two before this last year, every one of those things is nearly opposite. No unspeakable crushes, wildly changing musical tastes, unadventurous food tastes, feelings of crushing aloneness and depression, or weird and awkwardly creative events of randomness late at night after drinking my inhibitions away (only to build them back up the morning after, realizing what an ass I had been).
I roll around with these two opposites almost constantly, wondering if I’m dreaming now, having a lot of fun doing things that I had no idea would make me happy (domestic things, mostly); also, I feel everyday I step into work and let it affect my personality I resign myself to becoming something completely opposite of what I think I should be. If I could have my way, I’d probably do nothing. Even given talent like DFW, I would capitalize on it however I could (with the most conveniently applied effort), then step back and feel as if I could have done better if I would have gotten more help along the way, despite not really ever having a journey to have been helped along on (kind of like complaining that nobody makes my car go super-fast when all I do with it is drive in a circle in my back yard—as if I’ve been wronged by the car experts not seeking me out with their superchargers and such).
So, you have a person above (if you agree it’s a man, then it’s a “pussy” man—and not in the “Dude, You’re getting so much pussy,” but more in the “Why are you posting your emotions on a fucking web-diary?”; if you think it’s a woman, then you didn’t read closely enough…C- for you). Q1- What can one do to kick the bullshit out of oneself without actually standing up and attempting to awkwardly roundhouse kick one’s ass? Discuss.
Q2- How the fuck does this relate to DFW again? Move back three spaces.
