I have been the living embodiment of self-loathing as of late.
I can pinpoint exactly when this bitter disappointment in myself started and it was precisely the morning after finishing my painting what I showed to you all a post or two ago.
I can’t remember how far back and I’m too lazy to actually go and check the blog to get the exact date.
Wait, no, there it is. I just checked and it was five days ago.
It feels like about a month to me. An entire month of procrastinating mixed up with procrasturbating. (I’ll let you google that last one.)
Wow, only five days? Shit damn did I pack a whole butt ton of hating me into those 120 hours.
Why have I been angrier and sadder at myself than an Instagram ‘fitchick’ with only five likes on her latest titty pic in the last hour?
I have a rough idea why, it’s because the creating has stopped. But in a way has continued. I went from using paint and canvas to make art to bitterness and rage then directed it inwards and kept calling myself a worthless do nothing piece of shit over and over again until I lost all my hair, turned a lumpy brown texture and slid, log like, from a colon. Somewhat like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.
Except I turned into a piece of shit and fell out of an anus.
Ahh, the wonders of nature.
Don’t go thinking that this is a cry for help or a desperate plea for attention.
And don’t misconstrue my words, I am aware that I have worth. I know there are people out there that love me and I love them and I’m important to them and they’re important to me and blah blah blah blah.
What I’m referring to isn’t a lack of self-worth, its an abundance of hate.
Painting was fun but it was also easy in a way because it was all pre-planned.
I knew what I wanted to do, I knew the tools I had and I had worked out how to use them then POW, painting.
Writing however. Well let’s just say that the entirety of the paintings planning was like writing in my head, and letting it flow out onto the canvas was like reading.
I used that process to help alleviate writers block because hey, creating is creating, right?
Then afterwards I sat back down at my desk and had reality smooshed into my face like a sweaty nutsack.
Writing isn’t a fucking thing like painting!
But writing down how you’re going to paint IS just like writing!
So what did I do after I finished the painting? The next night I sat at my laptop and stared that that fucking blank page and waited for the art to fall out into the white oblivion, to fill it with colour and magic and skulls and shit.
BUT THE ART DIDN’T FUCKING COME BECAUSE THAT’S NOT HOW IT FUCKING WORKS.
I spend a lot of my day thinking about locations and plot and settings and characters and their backstories and their favourite drinks and their attire and their equipment and antagonists and protagonists and twists in the story and tie-ins and just shit after shit to the point that when I sit down to actually let all this out it’s like trying to vomit out golf balls.
I am frustrated at myself.
I am frustrated because I only have a short amount of time each day that I can assign to working on writing, to actually putting words on paper (or liquid crystal) and, as of late, when that time comes I have so many things and ideas that I want to put down that I don’t know where to start.
So I just sit. And I stare. And I write a sentence, and I hate it, and I delete it.
Then I try again, and it happens again.
Then the rage kicks in and I take a break and I browse mind numbing bullshit that helps me in no way whatsoever and then all of a sudden I can’t think or concentrate on my work because I’m too fucking tired then I go to bed angry and wake up angrier and tireder and I fucking hate Jacob because he’s a piece of shit that can’t do what he apparently loves so much.
On the plus side, I am getting REALLY up to date on the latest memes on hiddenlol.com and in the spirit of Hunter S. Thompson I’ve only just now discovered that alcohol can help lubricate the creative process.
Because in the time it’s taken me to write this, I’ve managed to create an origami swan from just pissing around with paper.
Then I tore it to pieces because I hated it.
Don’t stress, I’ll get back to thinking I’m great soon.
Probably tomorrow now that I’ve vented.
Ooooh look! Whiskey!