There’s a restaurant in downtown Nanaimo where you can pick up the world’s best grilled cheese sandwich. They call it “the classic,” and it lives up to its name. Top that off with a pretty decent cup of black coffee, and you have yourself a perfect meal anytime of the day that you so please.
I would live off coffee and The Classic if it was at all possible. That “One Meal A Day” thing that everyone gets so good at when they first move out on their own. That’s when you discover how little you can actually live one. Those moments when you sucked down a beer, had a bowl of soup with canned veggies in it, and called it a hearty meal that’ll last you a day or two. Well, it was hearty, all you had yesterday was a chocolate bar, cigarettes, and cheap coffee.
It’s now 2013, but I don’t usually care about dates. Specific dates aren’t significant in any special way whatsoever, it’s just another day. It’s what the individual does on that day that makes it special. This is why all those people saying 11/11/11 or 12/12/12 were important events, made my blood practically curdle. If all I did on those days was sleep till 3 p.m., take a healthy shit, and then eat celery out of the bag while reading something by some shit author, is that what my life is going to be defined by? I fucking hope not.
I’m trying to write, I really am. But it’s hard sometimes. It’s so much easier to just do whatever, and hope something will happen without any hard work. “Published at 24, and all he did was sit on his ass and drink!”
Even when the writing is good, it just sits there on my desk, being good to nobody but me. It’s so easy to get discouraged at attempting to be a writer, that you might switch career paths and become a discouraged hermit who’s dreams have been eviscerated by fear without you even knowing it.
Trying to avoid that.