I don’t know. What should I tell you?
That I’m typing this half-naked in the most Third World of settings, which makes it more ironic because of the obvious desire to be bigger and more “cultured?”
That despite this squalor, I’ve somehow just bought this cool tablet computer but purchasing it felt like sacrificing one of my kidneys to the Chinese capitalist god? I’m actually in trouble of blowing my end-of-year bonus in a week and having nothing for Christmas. Terrible possibility: must avoid at all costs!
Hmm. I don’t know. What should I write about?
Perhaps I should write about the Christmas party of my former team in the office. I had so much fun I wasn’t quite the same guy the next morning. Didn’t sleep, by the way, because we had a family reunion following that wild night of Christmas partying.
At the party, there was the usual talk about love and relationships with other guys–not that I’m complaining or cringing in any way. And yep, guys do talk like girls. Frankly, that’s one of the few conversation pieces I’m interested in. Everything else seems like a waste of time and a futile exercise of jaw muscles.
One guy talked about patience, caring, and understanding. In a matter of minutes, I knew we were both confused over the meaning of all three. Thank god for alcohol. I told him I understand him completely though I’m not really sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. An addict understanding his fellow addict doesn’t make them clean for shit.
Another guy told me to basically rewire my brain. Now that’s hard. That kind of advice is music to the ears but it’s almost always a Houdini to pull off when you’re already on the front lines. God knows how many philosophies, socializations and re-socializations I’ve gone through my entire life.
But I believed him and I think he’s right. Maybe it’s not enough to think you’ve moved on. Maybe there should be a conscious and constant effort on your part to move forward and attack your brain so that it demolishes everything you’ve perceived as basic, unassailable realities before.
Maybe there isn’t any template for the right girl. And what if I can truly convince myself that I’m a–what’s that cliche term–tabula rasa? Man do I hate that term.
But I’m sure I’m just bored. This is what happens when I can’t think of anything to write about because my head is filled with half-baked plans and fears. And someone.
Maybe you can’t really write about the things that you truly care about, deep inside, without all the bullshit that somebody somewhere successfully funneled into your brain? What if I just wasted my own time with these words and the one thing I should say–need to say–on this blog and to myself is impossible to say?
I’m pretty sure all that alcohol I ingested during the Christmas party is gone from my system by now, so no, I’m not drunk.
I guess I’ll just return to tinkering with that expensive tablet computer and wring out the value of my money. Comicbooks to read and movies to watch and all.
Or I’ll just think about her again and plan a better article another time.
Yeah, maybe I’ll write about it.