there was a time in my life when i thought i would be a writer. i always excelled at english and literature class. i always got As on any papers i handed in. i got a 5 on the AP english test senior year. in other words, i thought, “hey writing. this is easy. this is fun. yeah.”

well, it should be pretty obvious that i never got to be a writer. what i found out is that if you give me a topic, yeah i can BS as good as the best of them. i can write a report about fucking cantaloupes and make any teacher shed a tear over it’s beauty. what i can’t fucking do is write about real shit. the shit people actually want to read about. an interesting story with a myriad of characters that interact and have adventures or some shit. can’t just get my brain to work in that way.

i was really disappointed about that for awhile, until i realized that you can’t really make money as a writer. there are hundreds up on hundreds of new books that come out every year, and maybe 20 of them will make someone rich. not that what i do now is ever going to make me rich, but at least i earn enough that i don’t have to wait tables or something else equally demeaning (sorry to those of you that work in food service, not a job i could ever do so mad respec’)

last night as i was drunkenly falling asleep (victorian’s midnight cafe being 1 block from my house for the win!) and i had some brilliant idea for a new journal entry on here. fucking problem is i was kinda drunk and really sleepy, so i just thought to myself “well this is so great i’ll totally remember it in the morning, no big deal.” right. so here i am the next day, and all i have is this faint idea that i had something amazing to write about and now it’s gone.

oh well, live and learn. i need to keep a notebook next to my bed or something.

by the by, if you can get your hands on this little gem, i’d highly recommend it. i don’t even like van halen, but this shit is … well. i guess you’ll just have to see.