What To Do.

I used to have nothing to do. Very almost to the literal point of nothing. Nowadays I swan from work to home to partner to medical appointments to friends, with hopefully only just enough time taken to breathe. So here I am on a Wednesday with the day off work, and I feel lost. I feel as lost as I did during the period between college and not having a job, and what a dark period that was.

My mind on any day is like a bathtub with half of the world's pointless shit piled in it, swirling around trying to push itself through the plughole but there's just too much of it, and the plughole is small, and if there is something small enough to get through then it's only seconds before the next bit of shit tries to wedge itself in. It's a kind of mental swashbuckling that produces terrible analogies. It's a capable mind, but incredibly inefficient.

On a day off like this I want to absorb as much as possible. Films, music, history, places, books, television and everything outside and in between. The issue is it can barely decide to stick to one thing. Sedatives barely allow it to function and stop it from deconstructing and analysing every footstep and syllable, and turning into a self conscious unproductive mess.

I'm working on it all. In writing I now pretend that my rambling incoherency is a stylistic choice.

Let me set something straight.

I'm just going to preempt any further content by saying I firmly believe in quality over quantity, yet that may not be the tactic I employ writing on here. This is myself trying to get out of my creative lull and take some risks. This entire page is essentially my drafting paper.

I'm just going to apologise to Maddox, firstly, who once excellently said:

"I self-edit because I respect my readers. I have written or started to write 13 articles last year, and only published 1. That's because I don't think everything I write is worth posting, and I wish more web authors followed suit. There's way too much bullshit out there; too many half-assed assertions, uninteresting observations, long, tedious fiction tomes and an endless supply of shitty photo blogs. Being able to point a camera at something and snapping a photo doesn't automatically make you an artist, and no nobody cares about your stupid link dump with a clever name. If it took you 5 minutes to make, it'll probably take me half as long times zero seconds to lose interest. If half these dick holes stopped flooding the Internet with so much shitty content, it wouldn't be so hard for genuinely talented up-and-commers to get noticed. Then again, if your goal is fame, you're in it for the wrong reason to begin with. Nobody cares about the quantity of articles, it's the quality that counts. If you post a thousand shitty articles and one good one, you think anyone will remember the shitty ones and say "hey, that one article is really good, but the reason I go back is for the shitty daily updates!" No, you cocks. Nobody remembers the shitty ones. All they care about are the good ones."

I'm pissing in an ocean.

In fact, this whole blog post is particularly ridiculous because I'm asserting something based on a delusion that I have an audience. Nobody reads blogs. Certainly nobody reads the blogs of uninteresting people, and I most likely lead an incredibly uninteresting life. I'm not famous, and I'm not posting this from increasingly exotic locations while describing the previous days arduous trekking with each update. My feet don't hurt, I didn't have a drink with some locals, and I didn't take photos of myself from the summit of Kilimanjaro.

The End.

Boxing Day

What's the point in Boxing Day? Sure, writers groan about the relevance and annoyance created by the impending event of Christmas, and all the commercial drivel it spews upon us, but what about Christmas's less cherished younger sprog?

So I just performed some research. Wikipedia doesn't even have a definitive answer to what the "Boxing" in Boxing Day could possibly mean:

"The exact etymology of the term "boxing" is unclear and there are several competing theories, none of which is definitive."

There no longer being another encyclopedic resource I can type and refer to in less than 2 seconds, and therefore not bother with, I am completely at a loss. I can't stand boxing day. You just don't know where you stand with it. Is Christmas over? Is this still all part of the annual extended family meeting ritual? Fuck you Boxing Day.

Now all I can imagine in my attempt to bloat this post to something worth posting is being tortured to within an inch of my sanity by being made to watch the film Real Steel repeatedly on Boxing Day, in some kind of ironic demented technosexual fetishist dream that could've only been conjured by the sick mind of Hugh Jackman. You know the kind of people that like to strut around on camera with their hairy chest on display for 90 minutes, with sticky up hair and pieces of metal sticking out their hands? The recently injured, the mentally ill, and that's it.

You know, I haven't even seen Real Steel, but I assume it's terrible. Being a modern aspiring writer requires me to be overly critical and a little bit spiteful. X-Men Origins: Wolverine actually was really shit, though.

And that's what happens when you've been stuck in a spiralling case of writer's block since forever.