Why not? We’re on the tail end of COVID, tired after a long journey, trying to get back into the swing of normal life.
Writing. Reading. Comics. That’s all I really need. Exercise and meditation for the body and mind. Music for the spirit. Cooking as an alternate outlet for creativity and experience.
Anything else is gravy. Movies, television, video games, sex, travel, other various storytelling mediums… gravy.
Target: 1300 words
Written: 2326 words, novel: Father LightningI should be more excited about going to France. I should be. I know. Ten days in Bordeaux and Paris, touring wine country and not seeing the Mona Lisa (again!) while at the Louvre?
I feel like I should be hyped, but I think I’m so wallowed in my present exhaustion to get excited. It’s like that for all travel now. No interest. No anticipatory glee. Only a grudging willingness to pack and a curse that this is going to mean no down time for the new future.
I’ve rarely remembered being so tired as I have in the last year. From the psychotic stress of the last job, to the intense learning period of the new one, to unhealthy and/or dying parents and pets, COVID, Donald Trump and the negative news cycle, to competing with depression for the ability to do or remember anything properly, it’s been one long trial after another, and while travelling to another country sounds like a great way to get away and will I’m sure be fun, it also means I won’t get much done while I’m gone. It will be a lot of walking and moving and eating, and probably acid reflux, and I will come back as burnt out or more than when I left. What I need is a few days of routine; of relative ease.
A long weekend where we don’t do anything but read, write, play video games and maybe enjoy a beer or two and some good, relaxing, playful sex.
Perfect, right?
Far better than returning to the Louvre after 30 years to find out that it’s not fucking open on the only day you can go, which is almost worse than when you went as a teenager on exchange and the Mona Lisa was “closed for cleaning”, because at least there’s a lot of other cool stuff to see. Good thing it’s overrated, or I’d feel worse about that. Picnics in the park, anyone?
Maybe I’ll go find Jim Morrison’s grave again. Or will that be closed as well?
Target: 1300 words
Written: 41 words, novel: Father LightningI wrote another hip little story a while back called Forest Edge. Inspired by the Tragically Hip song of the same name, it takes an incel and sticks him into a high fantasy world, where things are considerably more laidback (similar to Rat Queens).
I empathize with incels to an extent, because I was one of them at one point. I mean, not the violent threats or anything, but I understand being a guy who thinks he’s good enough for girls being utterly see-through to them in reality. I know that frustration. That said, I never ever took it to the point where I felt it was my right to “get” any particular woman, or that I had the right to force myself upon any of them.
I took the heartbreak of rejection like a champ, and instead, internalized it into a nice, unhealthy depression. I was more likely to beat myself up than anyone else. I never actually thought it was the girl’s fault, other than the usual, but he’s a jerk kind of thing. The rest was “why am I not good enough?”, which can be both a seriously destructive place to land, and a building block for future improvements to the self.
I’ve since come to realize how toxic the “nice guy” trope is. Nice guys finish last all the time. And most of the time, someone in this position isn’t doing themselves any favours. They aren’t dressing nicer, finding confidence or focusing on being a good, interesting person first. No, we wear old, shitty clothes, assume entitlement without effort, and never actually understand that a claim to any particular person isn’t automatic.
We have to be interesting enough ourselves, to hold the qualities that attract that other persons before there’s even a remote chance. And yeah, sorry guys. Sometimes, you just have to be better looking.
You have to have something to offer, and more importantly, any given potential love interest has to be interested in what you’re offering. You could be an awesome dude, well-dressed, intelligent, kind and good to children, but if she’s looking for someone who makes her laugh?
Sorry.
And that’s totally her right. Just because you think you’re entitled to Natalie Portman and Rihanna doesn’t mean she’s not thinking the same thing about Brad Pitt and Ryan Gosling. And you ain’t them, so good luck.
The thing is – no one’s entitled to anyone else. No one’s body. No one’s respect. There is a certain basic level of respect and courtesy we should treat people with, unless they prove themselves such reprobates as to exhaust basic decency. Anything above that has to be earned.
You aren’t owed shit, no matter how lonely you feel or how horny you are. And if you think you are, fuck you.
Target: 1300 words
Written: 742 words, novel: Father Lightning