First and foremost, the above picture is as accurate as I am polite.
Secondly, I tend to avoid step two and three MOST days because I know it’ll hinder recovery from training. This is the lie that I tell myself because I know that I can’t afford the type of booze that I’ve conditioned myself to enjoy, and also I need to believe the lie so that I can continue to function in a way that is mildly beneficial to my family.
But by Christ is it tempting to just roll into steps 2 and 3 almost every moment of most days because they help dull the ache of step 1.
Now you may notice that I haven’t posted a blog in a little bit. And if you were me and lived inside my head you would also notice – once you get past all the self-loathing – that I haven’t actually put pen to paper in a voluminous manner for a while.
Which I can tell you now, really doesn’t help get over the main bullet point of Step 1.
But do you know what DOES help get over thinking that I’m a walking talking sack of shit that’s occasionally capable of vomiting out words worthy of your time?
And where do I get my Dopamine from? Well, aside from my brain?
Heroi- No… sorry I was thinking of someone else.
I get my Dopamine from the same place that everyone else gets it these days.
Except the heroin addicts. They still get it from Heroin. And their brains. It’s a complex system, what am I a neuroscientist? Fuck off and research it yourself.
Specifically I get my fix from poetry and Instagram. Not reading other peoples poetry, lord no.
I get it from people reading mine and double tapping that little sonbitch.
And for a writer, or more specifically for someone that thinks that everything they ever create is about as good as having to gargle a placenta and fibreglass smoothie in preparation to deep-throating an electric eel, having people tell you that they love you work is pretty god damn satisfying.
Ok, they don’t actually say they love it, they just like it.
Well, they don’t exactly say that they like it they just read it and double tap the picture.
I mean I THINK they read it. Why would they like it without reading it?
The moral to this story is that I have an addictive personality disorder coupled with a self-deprecating attitude towards any and all work I produce and for some stupid reason people seem to like the crappy crappy poetry I throw out there so now that’s acting as some sort of dopamine high and makes me feel good enough about myself to stave of hitting the bottle for another day.
And, as weird as I feel about it, I actually think I’m turning into a poet.
If I believed in God or Jesus I’d be begging forgiveness and or help.
But being that I prefer Satans style, I guess I’ll just keep on doing what I’m doing and ride that addiction train all the way down to the 9th circle.
Actually it’s probably going to be the 5th circle if you believe Dante because my issues are mostly anger related.
As a foot note, I honestly have no idea what a lot of my poems are about and really and truly don’t see how or why people could like them but hey, whatever floats your boat man. If they’re cool with you you’re cool with me.
Just don’t talk to me in public. I’m awkward like that.
But I will be polite.
It’ll just be awkward.
Credit to www.theoatmeal.com for the picture and nailing what it is to be a writer. At least so far in my experience.